*  #  * 

This  is  an  authorized  facsimile  and  was  produced  by 
microfilm-xerography  in  1967  by  University  Micro 
films,  A  Xerox  Company,  Ann  Arbor,  Michigan,  U.S.A. 


IN    COLONIAL   TIMES 

* 

- 

-  -b?-\ 
The  Adventures  of  AnnWe  Wound  Girl  of 

Samuel  Waks,  of  Bfaintree,  in  the 
*        Province  of  Massachusetts  Way 


BY 
MARY   E.   WILKINS 

AUTHOR  OF 

"THE   POT  OF  GOLD,"    "JANE   FIELD," 
"ONCE  UPON   A  TIME,"  ETC. 


ElluattatftJ 


BOSTON 
LOTHROP  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


A'RV 


CO 


*r*++~*^£''f < i- 


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Copyright,  1899, 

BY 

LOTHROP  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 


CONTENTS. 


IN   COLONIAL  TIMES. 

CHAPTER  PAG* 

I.    THE  BOUND  GIRL    .        .        .        .        .        .  7 

II.    DEACON  THOMAS  WALES'S  WILL      .        .        .  29 

III.  THE  ADOPTED  DAUGHTER        ....  49 

IV.  THE  " HORSE  HOUSE"  DEED  .        .        .  72 


THE   SQUIRE'S   SIXPENCE         .        .        .        .      97 


IN  COLONIAL  TIMES 


IN   COLONIAL  TIMES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    BOUND   GIRL. 

THIS  Indenture  Wittnesseth,  That  I  Margaret  Burjust  of 
Boston,  in  the  County  of  Suffolk  and  Province  of  the  Massa 
chusetts  Bay  in  New  England.  Have  placed,  and  by  these 
presents  do  place  and  bind  out  my  only  Daughter  whose 
name  is  Ann  Ginnins  to  be  an  Apprentice  unto  Samuel 
Wales  and  his  wife  of  Braintree  in  the  County  afores : d, 
Blacksmith.  To  them  and  their  Heirs  and  with  them  the 
s  : d  Samuel  Wales,  his  wife  and  their  Heirs,  after  the  man 
ner  of  an  apprentice  to  dwell  and  Serve  from  the  day  of  the 
date  hereof  for  and  during  the  full  and  Just  Term  of  Sixteen 
years,  three  months  and  twenty-three  day's  next  ensueing  and 
fully  to  be  Compleat,  during  all  which  term  the  s : d  appren 
tice  her  s  : d  Master  and  Mistress  faithfully  Shall  Serve,  Their 
Secrets  keep  close,  and  Lawful  and  reasonable  Command 
everywhere  gladly  do  and  perform. 

Damage  to  her  s : d  Master  and  Mistress  she  shall  not 
willingly  do.  Her  s  :  d  Master's  goods  she  shall  not  waste, 
Pmbezel,  purloin  ot  lend  unto  Others  nor  suffer  the  same  to 

7 


8  IN  COLONIAL    r/Af£S. 

be  wasted  or  purloined,  But  to  her  power  Shall  discover 
the  Same  to  her  s : d  Master.  Taverns  or  Ailhouss  she  Shall 
not  frequent,  at  any  unlawful  game  She  Shall  not  play,  Mat 
rimony  she  Shall  not  Contract  with  any  persons  during  s : d 
Term.  From  her  master's  Service  She  Shall  not  at  any  time 
unlawfully  absent  herself.  But  in  all  things  as  a  good  honest 
and  faithful  Servant  and  apprentice  Shall  bear  and  behave 
herself,  During  the  full  term  afores : d  Commencing  from  the 
third  day  of  November  Anno  Dom :  One  Thousand,  Seven 
Hundred  fifty  and  three.  And  the  s : d  Master  for  himself,  wife, 
and  Heir's,  Doth  Covenant  Promise  Grant  and  Agree  unto 
and  with  the  s  : d  apprentice  and  the  s  :d  Margaret  Bur  just, 
in  manner  and  form  following.  That  is  to  say,  That  they 
will  teach  the  s  : d  apprentice  or  Cause  her  to  be  taught  in 
the  Art  of  good  housewifery,  and  also  to  read  and  write  well. 
And  will  find  and  provide  for  and  give  unto  s : d  apprentice 
good  and  sufficient  Meat  Drink  washing  and  lodging  both 
in  Sickness  and  in  health,  and  at  the  Expiration  of  S  : d  term 
to  Dismiss  s  : d  apprentice  with  two  Good  Suits  of  Apparrel 
both  of  woolen  and  linnin  for  all  parts  of  her  body  (viz)  One 
for  Lord-days  and  one  for  working  days  Suitable  to  her 
Quality.  In  Testimony  whereof  I  Samuel  Wales  and  Mar 
garet  Bur  just  Have  interchangably  Sett  their  hands  and 
Seals  this  Third  day  November  Anno  Dom  :  1753,  and 
in  the  twenty  Seventh  year  of  the  Reign  of  our  Soveraig'n 
Lord  George  the  Second  of  great  Britain  the  King. 
Signed  Sealed  &  Delivered. 
In  presence  of 

SAM  VAUGHAN  MARGARET  BURGIS 

MARY  VAUGHAN  her  X  mark. 


THE  BOUND  G/KL.  9. 

This  quaint  document  was  carefully  locked  up, 
with  some  old  deeds  and  other  valuable  papers, 
in  his  desk  by  the  "  s : d  Samuel  Wales,"  one  hun 
dred  and  thirty  years  ago.  The  desk  was  a  rude, 
unpainted  pine  affair,  and  it  reared  itself  on  its 
four  stilt-like  legs  in  a  corner  of  his  kitchen,  in  his 
house  in  the  South  Precinct  of  Braintree.  The 
sharp  eyes  of  the  little  "  s : d  apprentice  "  had  noted 
it  oftener  and  more  enviously  than  any  other 
article  of  furniture  in  the  house.  On  the  night 
of  her  arrival,  after  her  journey  of  fourteen  miles 
from  Boston,  over  a  rough  bridle-road,  on  a  jolt 
ing  horse,  clinging  tremblingly  to  her  new  "  Mas 
ter,"  she  peered  through  her  little  red  fingers  at 
the  desk  swallowing  up  those  precious  papers 
which  Samuel  Wales  drew  from  his  pocket  with 
an  important  air.  She  was  hardly  five  years  old, 
but  she  was  an  acute  child ;  and  she  watched  her 
master  draw  forth  the  papers,  show  them  to  his 
wife,  Polly,  and  lock  them  up  in  the  desk,  with 
the  full  understanding  that  they  had  something 
to  do  with  her  coming  to  this  strange  place ;  and, 
already,  a  shadowy  purpose  began  to  form  itself 
in  her  mind. 


10  IN  COLONIAL  TIMES, 

She  sat  on  a  cunning  little  wooden  stool,  close 
to  the  fireplace,  and  kept  her  small  chapped 
hands  persistently  over  her  face ;  she  was  scared, 
and  grieved,  and,  withal,  a  trifle  sulky,  Mrs. 
Polly  Wales  cooked  some  Indian  meal  mush  for 
supper  in  an  iron  pot  swinging  from  its  trammel 
over  the  blazing  logs,  and  cast  scrutinizing  glances 
at  the  little  stranger.  She  had  welcomed  her 
kindly,  taken  off  her  outer  garments,  and  estab 
lished  her  on  the  little  stool  in  the  warmest 
.corner,  but  the  child  had  given  a  very  un 
gracious  response.  She  would  not  answer  a 
word  to  Mrs.  Wales's  coaxing  questions,  but 
twitched  herself  away  with  all  her  small  might, 
and  kept  her  hands  tightly  over  her  eyes,  only 
peering  between  her  fingers  when  she  thought 
no  one  was  noticing. 

She  had  behaved  after  the  same  fashion  all 
the  way  from  Boston,  as  Mr.  Wales  told  his  wife 
in  a  whisper.  The  two  were  a  little  dismayed  at 
the  whole  appearance  of  the  small  apprentice; 
to  tell  the  truth,  she  was  not  in  the  least  what 
they  had  expected.  They  had  been  revolving 
this  scheme  of  taking  "  a  bound  girl "  for  some 


THE  BOUND  GIRL.  II 

time  in  their  minds;  and  Samuel  Wales's  gossip 
in  Boston,  Sam  Vaughan,  had  been  requested  to 
keep  a  lookout  for  a  suitable  person. 

So,  when  word  came  that  one  had  been  found, 
Mr.  Wales  had  started  at  once  for  the  city. 
When  he  saw  the  child,  he  was  dismayed.  He 
had  expected  to  see  a  girl  of  ten ;  this  one  was 
hardly  five,  and  she  had  anything  but  the  demure 
and  decorous  air  which  his  Puritan  mind  es 
teemed  becoming  and  appropriate  in  a  little- 
maiden.  Her  hair  was  black  and  curled  tightly, 
instead  of  being  brown  and  straight  parted  in 
the  middle,  and  combed  smoothly  over  her  ears 
as  his  taste  regulated;  her  eyes  were  black  and 
flashing,  instead  of  being  blue  and  downcast. 
The  minute  he  saw  the  child,  he  felt  a  disap 
proval  of  her  rise  in  his  heart,  and  also  something 
akin  to  terror.  He  dreaded  to  take  this  odd- 
looking  child  home  to  his  wife  Polly ;  he  foresaw 
contention  and  mischief  in  their  quiet  household. 
But  he  felt  as  if  his  word  was  rather  pledged  to 
his  gossip,  and  there  was  the  mother,  waiting 
and  expectant.  She  was  a  red-checked  English 
girl,  who  had  been  in  Sam  Vaughan's  employ; 


12  IN  COLONIAL    TIMES. 

she  had  recently  married  one  Burjust,  and  he 
was  unwilling  to  support  the  first  husband's 
child,  so  this  chance  to  bind  her  out  and  secure 
a  good  home  for  her  had  been  eagerly  caught  at. 

The  small  Ann  seemed  rather  at  Samuel 
Wales's  mercy,  and  he  had  not  the  courage  to 
disappoint  his  friend  or  her  mother ;  so  the 
necessary  papers  were  made  out,  Sam  Vaughan's 
and  wife's  signatures  affixed,  and  Margaret  Bur- 
just's  mark,  and  he  set  out  on  his  homeward 
journey  with  the  child. 

The  mother  was  coarse  and  illiterate,  but  she 
had  some  natural  affection ;  she  "  took  on  "  sadly 
when  the  little  girl  was  about  to  leave  her,  and 
Ann  clung  to  her  frantically.  It  was  a  pitiful 
scene,  and  Samuel  Wales,  who  was  a  very  tender 
hearted  man,  was  glad  when  it  was  over,  and  he 
jogging  along  the  bridle-path. 

But  he  had  had  other  troubles  to  encounter. 
All  at  once,  as  he  rode  through  Boston  streets, 
with  his  little  charge  behind  him,  after  leaving 
his  friend's  house,  he  felt  a  vicibus  little  twitch 
at  his  hair,  which  he  wore  in  a  queue  tied  with  a 
black  ribbon  after  the  fashion  of  the  period. 


THE  BOUND  GIRL,  13 

Twitch,  twitch,  twitch*!  The  water  came  into 
Samuel  Wales's  eyes,  and  the  blood  to  his  cheeks, 
while  the  passers-by  began  to  hoot  and  laugh. 
His  horse  became  alarmed  at  the  hubbub,  and 
started  up.  For  a  few  minutes  the  poor  man 
could  do  nothing  to  free  himself.  It  was  won 
derful  what  strength  the  little  creature  had ;  she 
clinched  her  tiny  fingers  in  the  braid,  and  pulled, 
and  pulled.  Then,  all  at  once,  her  grasp  slack 
ened,  and  off  flew  her  master's  steeple-crowned 
hat  into  the  dust,  and  the  neat  black  ribbon  on 
the  end  of  the  queue  followed  it.  Samuel  Wales 
reined  up  his  horse  with  a  jerk  then,  and  turned 
around,  and  administered  a  sounding  box  on  each 
of  his  apprentice's  ears.  Then  he  dismounted, 
amid  shouts  of  laughter  from  the  spectators,  and 
got  aiman  to  hold  the  horse  while  he  went  back 
and  picked  up  his  hat  and  ribbon. 

He  had  no  further  trouble.  The  boxes  seemed 
to  have  subdued  Ann  effectually.  But  he  pon 
dered  uneasily  all  the  way  home  on  the  small 
vessel  of  wrath  which  was  perched  up  behind 
him,  and  there  was  a  tingling  sensation  at  the 
roots  of  his  queue.  He  wondered  what  Polly 


14  /A"  COLONIAL    TfAfJSS. 

would  say.  The  first  glance  at  her  face,  when  he 
lifted  Ann  off  the  horse  at  his  own  door,  con 
firmed  his  fears.  She  expressed  her  mind,  in  a 
womanly  way,  by  whispering  in  his  ear  at  the 
first  opportunity,  "She's  as  black  as  an  Injun." 

After  Ann  had  eaten  her  supper,  and  had  been 
tucked  away  between  some  tow  sheets  and  home 
spun  blankets  in  a  trundle-bed,  she  heard  the 
whole  story  and  lifted  up  her  hands  with  horror. 
Then  the  good  couple  read  a  chapter,  and  prayed, 
solemnly  vowing  to  do  their  duty  by  this  child 
which  they  had  taken  under  their  roof,  and  im 
ploring  divine  assistance. 

As  time  wore  on,  it  became  evident  that  they 
stood  in  sore  need  of  it.  They  had  never  had 
any  children  of  their  own,  and  Ann  Ginnins  was 
the  first  child  who  had  ever  lived  with  them.  But 
she  seemed  to  have  the  freaks  of  a  dozen  or  more 
in  herself,  and  they  bade  fair  to  have  the  experi 
ence  of  bringing  up  a  whole  troop  with  this  one. 
They  tried  faithfully  to  do  their  duty  by  her,  but 
they  were  not  used  to  children,  and  she  was  a 
very  hard  child  to  manage.  A  whole  legion  of 
mischievous  spirits  seemed  to  dwell  in  her  at 


THE  BOUND  GIRL.  1 5 

times,  and  she  became,  in  a  small  and  compara 
tively  innocent  way,  the  scandal  of  the  staid  Puri 
tan  neighborhood  in  which  she  lived.  Yet,  withal, 
she  was  so  affectionate,  and  seemed  to  be  actu 
ated  by  so  little  real  malice  in  any  of  her  pranks, 
that  people  could  not  help  having  a  sort  of  liking 
for  the  child,  in  spite  of  them. 

She  was  quick  to  learn,  and  smart  to  work, 
too,  when  she  chose.  Sometimes  she  flew  about 
with  such  alacrity  that  it  seemed  as  if  her  little 
limbs  were  hung  on  wires,  and  no  little  girl  in 
the  neighborhood  could  do  her  daily  tasks  in  the 
time  she  could,  and  they  were  no  inconsiderable 
tasks,  either. 

Very  soon  after  her  arrival  she  was  set  to 
"  winding  quills,"  so  many  every  day.  Seated  at 
Mrs.  Polly's  side,  in  her  little  homespun  gown, 
winding  quills  through  sunny  forenoons,  —  how 
she  hated  it  1  She  liked  feeding  the  hens  and 
pigs  better,  and  when  she  got  promoted  to  driv 
ing/the  cows,  a  couple  of  years  later,  she  was  in 
her  element.  There  were  charming  possibilities 
of  nuts  and  checkerberries  and  sassafras  t  and 
sweet  flag  all  the  way  between  the  house  and 


1 6  IN  COLONIAL    TIMES. 

the  pasture,  and  the  chance  to  loiter  and  have 
a  romp. 

She  rarely  showed  any  unwillingness  to  go  for 
the  cows;  but  once,  when  there  was  a  quilting 
at  her  mistress's  house,  she  demurred.  It  was 
right  in  the  midst  of  the  festivities;  they  were 
just  preparing  for  supper,  in  fact.  Ann  knew 
all  about  the  good  things  in  the  pantry,  she 
was  wild  with  delight  at  the  unwonted  stir,  and 
anxious  not  to  lose  a  minute  of  it.  She  thought 
some  one  else  might  go  for  the  cows  that  night. 
She  cried  and  sulked,  but  there  was  no  help  for 
it.  Go  she  had  to.  So  she  tucked  up  her  gown, 
—  it  was  her  best  Sunday  one,  —  took  her  stick, 
and  trudged  along.  When  she  came  to  the 
pasture,  there  were  her  master's  cows  waiting 
at  the  bars.  So  were  Neighbor  Belcher's  cows 
also,  in  the  adjoining  pasture.  Ann  had  her 
hand  on  the  topmost  of  her  own  bars,  when  she 
happened  to  glance  over  at  Neighbor  Belcher's, 
and  a  thought  struck  her.  She  burst  into  a  peal 
of  laughter,  and  took  a  step  towards  the  other 
bars.  Then  she  went  back  to  her  own.  Finally, 
she  let  down  the  Belcher  bars,  and  the  Belcher 


THE  BOUND   GIRL.  1 7 

cows  crowded  out,  to  the  great  astonishment 
of  the  Wales  cows,  who  stared  over  their  high 
rails  and  mooed  uneasily. 

Ann  drove  the  Belcher  cows  home  and  ush 
ered  them  into  Samuel  Wales's  barnyard  with 
speed.  Then  she  went  demurely  into  the  house. 
The  table  looked  beautiful.  Ann  was  beginning 
to  quake  inwardly,  though  she  still  was  hugging 
herself,  so  to  speak,  in  secret  enjoyment  of  her 
own  mischief.  She  had  one  hope,  — that  supper 
would  be  eaten  before  her  master  milked.  But 
the  hope  was  vain.  When  she  saw  Mr.  Wales 
come  in,  glance  her  way,  and  then  call  his  wife 
out,  she  knew  at  once  what  had  happened,  and 
begun  to  tremble,  —  she  knew  perfectly  what 
Mr.  Wales  was  saying  out  there.  It  was  this: 
"  That  little  limb  has  driven  home  all  Neighbor 
Belcher's  cows  instead  of  ours;  what's  going  to 
be  done  with  her?" 

She  knew  what  the  answer  would  be,  too. 
Mrs.  Polly  was  a  peremptory  woman. 

Back  Ann  had  to  go  with  the  Belcher  cows, 
fasten  them  safely  in  their  pasture  again,  and 
drive  her  master's  home.  She  was  hustled  off 


1 8  IN  COLONIAL   TIMES. 

to  bed,  then,  without  any  of  that  beautiful  sup 
per.  But  she  had  just  crept  into  her  bed  in  the 
small  unfinished  room  up-stairs  where  she  slept, 
and  was  lying  there  sobbing,  when  she  heard 
a  slow,  fumbling  step  on  the  stairs.  Then  the 
door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Deacon  Thomas  Wales, 
Samuel  Wales's  mother,  came  in.  She  was  a 
good  old  lady,  and  had  always  taken  a  great 
fancy  to  her  son's  bound  girl ;  and  Ann,  on  her 
part,  minded  her  better  than  any  one  else.  She 
hid  her  face  in  the  tow  sheet,  when  she  saw 
grandma.  The  old  lady  had  on  a  long  black 
silk  apron.  She  held  something  concealed 
under  it,  when  she  came  in.  Presently  she 
displayed  it. 

"  There  —  child,"  said  she,  "  here's  a  piece  of 
sweet  cake  and  a  couple  of  simballs,  that  I  man 
aged  to  save  out  for  you.  Jest  set  right  up  and 
eat  'em,  and  don't  ever  be  so  dretful  naughty 
again,  or  I  don't  know  what  will  become  of 
you." 

This  reproof,  tempered  with  sweetness,  had 
a  salutary  effect  on  Ann.  She  sat  up,  and  ate 
her  sweet  cake  and  simballs,  and  sobbed  out 


THE  BOUND  GIRL  1$ 

her  contrition  to  grandma,  and  there  was  a 
marked  improvement  in  her  conduct  for  some 
days. 

Mrs.  Polly  was  a  born  driver.  She  worked 
hard  herself,  and  she  expected  everybody  about 
her  to.  The  tasks  which  Ann  had  set  her  did 
not  seem  as  much  out  of  proportion,  then,  as 
they  would  now.  Still,  her  mistress,  even  then, 
allowed  her  less  time  for  play  than  was  usual, 
though  it  was  all  done  in  good  faith,  and  not 
from  any  intentional  severity.  As  time  went  on 
she  grew  really  quite  fond  of  the  child,  and  she 
was  honestly  desirous  of  doing  her  whole  duty  by 
her.  If  she  had  had  a  daughter  of  her  own,  it  is 
doubtful  if  her  treatment  of  her  would  have  been 
much  different 

Still,  Ann  was  too  young  to  understand  all 
this,  and,  sometimes,  though  she  was  strong  and 
healthy,  and  not  naturally  averse  to  work,  she 
would  rebel,  when  her  mistress  set  her  stints  so 
long,  and  kept  her  at  work  when  other  children 
were  playing. 

Once  in  a  while  she  would  confide  in  grandma, 
when  Mrs,  Polly  sent  her  over  there  on  an 


2O  IN  COLONIAL    TIMES. 

errand  and  she  had .  felt  unusually  aggrieved 
because  she  had  had  to  wind  quills,  or  hetchel, 
instead  of  going  berrying,  or  some  like  pleasant 
amusement. 

"  Poor  little  cosset,"  grandma  would  say,  pity 
ingly.  Then  she  would  give  her  a  simball,  and 
tell  her  she  must  "  be  a  good  girl,  and  not  mind 
if  she  couldn't  play  jest  like  the  others,  for  she'd 
got  to  airn  her  own  livin',  when  she  grew  up,  and 
she  must  learn  to  work." 

Ann  would  go  away  comforted,  but  grandma 
would  be  privately  indignant.  She  was,  as  is 
apt  to  be  the  case,  rather  critical  with  her  sons1 
wives,  and  she  thought  "  Sam'l's  kept  that  poor 
little  gal  too  stiddy  at  work,"  and  wished  and 
wished  she  could  shelter  her  under  her  own 
grandmotherly  wing,  and  feed  her  with  simballs 
to  her  heart's  content.  She  was  too  wise  to  say 
anything  to  influence  the  child  against  her  mis 
tress,  however.  She  was  always  cautious  about 
that,  even  while  pitying  her.  Once  in  a  while 
she  would  speak  her  mind  to  her  son,  but  he  was 
easy  enough,  —  Ann  would  not  have  found  him 
a  hard  taskmaster. 


THE  BOUND  GIRL.  21 

Still,  Ann  did  not  have  to  work  hard  enough 
to  hurt  her.  The  worst  consequences  were  that 
such  a  rigid  rein  on  such  a  frisky  little  colt  per 
haps  had  more  to  do  with  her  "  cutting  up,"  as 
her  mistress  phrased  it,  than  she  dreamed  of. 
Moreover,  the  thought  of  the  indentures,  securely 
locked  up  in  Mr.  Wales's  tall  wooden  desk,  was 
forever  in  Ann's  mind,  Half  by  dint  of  ques 
tioning  various  people,  half  by  her  own  natural 
logic,  she  had  settled  it  within  herself,  that  at 
any  time  the  possession  of  these  papers  would 
set  her  free,  and  she  could  go  back  to  her  own 
mother,  whom  she  dimly  remembered  as  being 
loud-voiced,  but  merry,  and  very  indulgent. 
However,  Ann  never  meditated  in  earnest,  tak 
ing  the  indentures ;  indeed,  the  desk  was  always 
locked  —  it  held  other  documents  more  valuable 
than  hers  —  and  Samuel  Wales  carried  the  key 
in  his  waistcoat  pocket. 

She  went  to  a  dame's  school,  three  months 
every  year.  Samuel  Wales  carted  half  a  cord  of 
wood  to  pay  for  her  schooling,  and  she  learned 
to  write  and  read  in  the  "  New  England  Primer." 
Next  to  her,  on  the  split  log  bench,  sat  a  little 


22  IN  COLONIAL    TIMES. 

girl  named  Hannah  French.  The  two  became 
fast  friends.  Hannah  was  an  only  child,  pretty 
and  delicate,  and  very  much  petted  by  her 
parents.  No  long  hard  tasks  were  set  those  soft 
little  fingers,  even  in  those  old  days  when  chil 
dren  worked  as  well  as  their  elders.  Ann  ad 
mired  and  loved  Hannah,  because  she  had  what 
she,  herself,  had  not;  and  Hannah  loved  and 
pitied  Ann  because  she  had  not  what  she  had. 
It  was  a  sweet  little  friendship,  and  would  not 
have  been,  if  Ann  had  not  been  free  from  envy 
and  Hannah  humble  and  pitying. 

When  Ann  told  her  what  a  long  stint  she  had 
to  do  before  school,  Hannah  would  shed  sympa 
thizing  tears. 

Ann,  after  a  solemn  promise  of  secrecy,  told 
her  about  the  indentures  one  day.  Hannah 
listened  with  round,  serious  eyes;  her  brown 
hair  was  combed  smoothly  down  over  her  ears. 
She  was  a  veritable  little  Puritan  damsel  herself. 

"If  I  could  only  get  the  papers,  I  wouldn't 
have  to  mind  her,  and  work  so  hard,"  said  Ann. 

Hannah's  eyes  grew  rounder.  "  Why,  it  would 
be  sinful  to  take  them ! "  sajd  she, 


THE  BOUND   GIRL.  23 

Ann's  cheeks  blazed  under  her  wondering  gaze, 
and  she  said  no  more. 

When  she  was  about  eleven  years  old,  one  icy 
January  day,  Hannah  wanted  her  to  go  out  and 
play  on  the  ice  after  school.  They  had  no 
skates,  but  it  was  rare  fun  to  slide.  Ann  went 
home  and  asked  Mrs.  Polly's  permission  with  a 
beating  heart ;  she  promised  to  do  a  double  stint 
next  day,  if  she  would  let  her  go.  But  her  mis 
tress  was  inexorable,  —  work  before  play,  she  said, 
always;  and  Ann  must  not  forget  that  she  was 
to  be  brought  up  to  work ;  it  was  different  with 
her  from  what  it  was  with  Hannah  French. 
Even  this  she  meant  kindly  enough,  but  Ann 
saw  Hannah  go  away,  and  sat  down  to  her  spin 
ning  with  more  fierce  defiance  in  her  heart  than 
had  ever  been  there  before.  She  had  been  un 
usually  good,  too,  lately.  She  always  was,  during 
the  three  months'  schooling,  with  sober,  gentle 
little  Hannah  French. 

She  had  been  spinning  sulkily  a  while,  and  it 
was  almost  dark,  when  a  messenger  came  for  her 
master  and  mistress  to  go  to  Deacon  Thomas 
Wales's,  who  had  been  suddenly  taken  very  ill, 


24  /<V  COLONIAL    TIMES. 

Ann  would  have  felt  sorry  if  she  had  net  been 
so  angry.  Deacon  Wales  was  almost  as  much  of 
a  favorite  of  hers  as  his  wife.  As  it  was,  the 
principal  thing  she  thought  of,  after  Mr.  Wales 
and  his  wife  had  gone,  was  that  the  key  was  in 
the  desk.  However  it  had  happened,  there  it 
was.  She  hesitated  a  moment.  She  was  all 
alone  in  the  kitchen,  and  her  heart  was  in  a  tu 
mult  of  anger,  but  she  had  learned  her  lessons 
from  the  Bible  and  the  "  New  England  Primer  " 
and  she  was  afraid  of  the  sin.  But,  at  last,  she 
opened  the  desk,  found  the  indentures,  and  hid 
them  in  the  little  pocket  which  she  wore  tied 
about  her  waist,  under  her  petticoat. 

Then  she  threw  her  blanket  over  her  head,  and 
got  her  poppet  out  of  the  chest.  The  poppet  was 
a  little  doll  manufactured  from  a  corn-cob,  dressed 
in  an  indigo-colored  gown.  Grandma  had  made 
it  for  her,  and  it  was  her  chief  treasure.  She 
clasped  it  tight  to  her  bosom  and  ran  across  lots 
to  Hannah  French's. 

Hannah  saw  her  coming,  and  met  her  at  the 
door. 

"  I've  brought  you  my  poppet,"  whispered  Ann, 


THE  BOUND  GIRL.  2$ 

all  breathless,  "and  you  must  keep  her  always, 
and  not  let  her  work  too  hard.  I'm  going 
away ! " 

Hannah's  eyes  looked  like  two  solemn  moons. 
44  Where  are  you  going,  Ann  ? " 

"  I'm  going  to  Boston  to  find  my  own  mother." 
She  said  nothing  about  the  indentures  to  Hannah 
—  somehow  she  could  not. 

Hannah  could  not  say  much,  she  was  so  aston 
ished,  but  as  soon  as  Ann  had  gone,  scudding 
across  the  fields,  she  went  in  with  the  poppet 
and  told  her  mother. 

Deacon  Thomas  Wales  was  very  sick.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Samuel  remained  at  his  house  all 
night,  but  Ann  was  not  left  alone,  for  Mr.  Wales 
had  an  apprentice  who  slept  in  the  house. 

Ann  did  not  sleep  any  that  night.  She  got 
up  very  early,  before  any  one  was  stirring,  and 
dressed  herself  in  her  Sunday  clothes.  Then 
she  tied  up  her  working  clothes  in  a  bundle, 
crept  softly  down-stairs,  and  out-doors. 

It  was  bright  moonlight  and  quite  cold.  She 
ran  along  as  fast  as  she  could  on  the  Boston 
road.  Deacon  Thomas  Wales's  house  was  on  the 


26  ttf  COLONIAL   TIMES. 

way,  The  windows  were  lit  up.  She  thought 
of  grandma  and  poor  grandpa,  with  a  sob  in  her 
heart,  but  she  sped  along.  Past  the  school- 
house,  and  meetingrhouse,  too,  she  had  to  go, 
with  big  qualms  of  grief  and  remorse.  But  she 
kept  on.  She  was  a  fast  traveller. 

She  had  reached  the  North  Precinct  of  Brain- 
tree  by  daylight.  So  far,  she  had  not  encoun 
tered  a  single  person.  Now,  she  heard  horse's 
hoofs  behind  her.  She  began  to  run  faster,  but 
it  was  of  no  use.  Soon  Captain  Abraham 
French  loomed  up  on  his  big  gray  horse,  a  few 
paces  from  her.  He  was  Hannah's  father,  but 
he  was  a  tithing-man,  and  looked  quite  stern, 
and  Ann  had  always  stood  in  great  fear  of 
him. 

She  ran  on  as  fast  as  her  little  heels  could  fly, 
with  a  thumping  heart.  But  it  was  not  Iong4>e- 
fore  she  felt  herself  seized  by  a  strong  arm  and 
swung  up  behind  Captain  French  on  the  gray 
horse.  She  was  in  a  panic  of  terror,  and  would 
have  cried  and  begged  for  mercy  if  she  had  not 
been  in  so  much  awe  of  her  captor.  She  thought 
with  awful  apprehension  of  these  stolen  inden- 


THE  BOUND  GIRL.  2J 

tures  in  her  little  pocket.  What  if  he  should 
find  that  out  1 

Captain  French  whipped  up  his  horse,  how 
ever,  and  hastened  along  without  saying  a  word. 
His  silence,  if  anything,  caused  more  dread  in 
Ann  than  words  would  have.  But  his  mind  was 
occupied.  Deacon  Thomas  Wales  was  dead ;  he 
was  one  of  his  most  beloved  and  honored  friends, 
and  it  was  a  great  shock  to  him.  Hannah  had 
told  him  about  Ann's  premeditated  escape,  and 
he  had  set  out  on  her  track,  as  soon  as  he  had 
found  that  she  was  really  gone,  that  morning. 
But  the  news  which  he  had  heard  on  his  way 
had  driven  all  thoughts  of  reprimand  which  he 
might  have  entertained  out  of  his  head.  He 
only  cared  to  get  the  child  safely  back. 

So  not  a  word  spoke  Captain  French,  but 
rode  on  in  grim  and  sorrowful  silence,  with  Ann 
clinging  to  him,  till  he  reached  her  master's 
door.  Then  he  set  her  down  with  a  stern  and 
solemn  injunction  never  to  transgress  again, 
and  rode  away. 

Ann  went  into  the  kitchen  with  a  quaking 
heart.  It  was  empty  and  still.  Its  very  empti- 


28  W  COLONIAL   TIMES. 

ness  and  stillness  seemed  to  reproach  her.  There 
stood  the  desk,  —  she  ran  across  to  it,  pulled  the 
indentures  from  her  pocket,  put  them  in  their 
old  place,  and  shut  the  lid  down.  There  they 
stayed  till  the  full  and  just  time  of  her  servitude 
had  expired.  She  never  disturbed  them  again. 

On  account  of  the  grief  and  confusion  incident 
on  Deacon  Wales's  death,  she  escaped  with  very 
little  censure.  She  never  made  an  attempt  to 
run  away  again.  Indeed  she  had  no  wish  to,  for, 
after  Deacon  Wales's  death,  grandma  was  lonely 
and  wanted  her,  and  she  lived,  most  of  the  time, 
with  her.  And,  whether  she  was  in  reality 
treated  any  more  kindly  or  not,  she  was  cer 
tainly  happier. 


CHAPTER   II. 

DEACON    THOMAS    WALES's    WILL. 

IN  the  Name  of  God  Amen  !  the  Thirteenth  Day  of  Sep 
tember  One  Thousand  Seven  Hundred  Fifty  &  eight,  1, 
Thomas  Wales  of  Braintree,  in  the  County  of  Suffolk  & 
Province  of  the  Massachusetts  Bay  in  New  England,  Gent 
—  being  in  good  health  of  Body  and  of  Sound  Disproving 
mind  and  Memory,  Thanks  be  given  to  God  —  Calling  to 
mind  my  mortality,  Do  therefore  in  my  health  make  and 
ordain  this  my  Last  Will  and  Testament.  And  First  I 
Recommend  my  Soul  into  the  hand  of  God  who  gave  it — '• 
Hoping  through  grace  to  obtain  Salvation  thro'  the  merits 
and  Mediation  of  Jesus  Christ  my  only  Lord  and  Dear  Re 
deemer,  and  my  body  to  be  Decently  interd,  at  the  Discre 
tion  of  my  Executer,  believing  at  the  General  Resurection  to 
receive  the  Same  again  by  the  mighty  Power  of  God  —  And 
such  worldly  estate  as  God  in  his  goodness  hath  graciously 
given  me  after  Debts,  funeral  Expenses  £c,  are  Paid  I  give 
&  Dispose  of  th'e  Same  as  Followeth  — 

Imprimis  —  I  Give  to  my  beloved  Wife  Sarah  a  good  Sute 
of  mourning  apparrel  Such  as  she  may  Choose  —  also  if  she 
acquit  my  estate  of  Dower  and  third-therin  (as  we  have 

29 


30  AV  COLONIAL   TIMES. 

agreed)  Then  that  my  Executer  return  all  of  Household 
movables  she  bought  at  our  marriage  &  since  that  are  remain 
ing,  also  to  Pay  to  her  or  Her  Heirs  That  Note  of  Forty 
Pound  I  gave  to  her,  when  she  acquited  my  estate  and  I 
hers.  Before  Division  to  be  made  as  herein  exprest,  also  the 
Southwest  fire-Room  in  my  House,  a  right  in  my  Cellar, 
1 1, ilfc  the  Garden,  also  the  Privilege  of  water  at  the  well  & 
yard  room  and  to  bake  in  the  oven  what  she  hath  need  of  to 
improve  her  Life-time  by  her. 

After  this  followed  a  division  of  his  property 
amongst  his  children,  five  sons  and  two  daugh 
ters.  The  "  Homeplace  "  was  given  to  his  sons 
Ephraim  and  Atherton.  Ephraim  had  a  good 
house  of  his  own,  so  he  took  his  share  of  the 
property  in  land,  and  Atherton  went  to  live  in 
the  old  homestead.  His  quarters  had  been  poor 
enough;  he  had  not  been  so  successful  as  his 
brothers,  and  had  been  unable  to  live  as  well.  It 
had  been  a  great  cross  to  his  wife,  Dorcas,  who 
was  very  high-spirited.  She  had  compared,  bit 
terly,  the  poverty  of  her  household  arrangements 
with  the  abundant  comforts  of  her  sisters-in-law. 

Now  she  seized  eagerly  at  the  opportunity  of 
improving  her  style  of  living.  The  old  Wales 
house  was  quite  a  pretentious  edifice  for  those 


DEACON  THOMAS  WALES'S  WILL.  31 

times.  All  the  drawback  to  her  delight  wu. 
that  Grandma  should  have  the  southwest  fire- 
room.  She  wanted  to  set  up  her  high-posted 
bedstead,  with  its  enormous  feather  bed  in  that, 
and  have  it  for  her  fore-room,  Properly,  it  was 
the  fore-room,  being  right  across  the  entry  from 
the  family  sitting-room.  There  was  a  tall  chest 
of  drawers  that  would  fit  in  so  nicely  between  the 
windows,  too.  Take  it  altogether,  she  was  cha 
grined  at  having  to  give  up  the  southwest  room; 
but  there  was  no  help  foi  it  —  there  it  was  in 
Deacon  Wales's  will. 

Mrs.  Dorcas  was  the  youngest  of  all  the  sons* 
wives,  as  her  husband  was  the  latest  born.  She 
was  quite  a  girl  to  some  of  them.  Grandma  had 
never  more  than  half  approved  of  her.  Dorcas 
was  high-strung  and  flighty,  she  said.  She  had 
her  doubts  about  living  happily  with  her.  But 
Atherton  was  anxious  for  this  division  of  the 
property,  and  he  was  her  youngest  darling,  so 
she  gave  in.  She  felt  lonely,  and  out  of  her 
element,  when  everything  was  arranged,  she 
established  in  the  southwest  fire-room,  and 
Atherton's  family  'keeping  house  in  the  others, 


33  IN  COLONIAL    TIMES, 

though  things  started  pleasantly  and  peaceably 
enough, 

It  occurred  to  her  that  her  son  Samuel  might 
have  her  own  "  help,"  a  stout  woman,  who  had 
worked  in  her  kitchen  for  many  years,  and  she 
take  in  exchange  his  little  bound  girl,  Ann  Gin- 
nins.  She  had  always  taken  a  great  fancy  to  the 
child.  There  was  a  large  closet  out  of  the  south 
west  room,  where  she  could  sleep,  and  she  could 
be  made  very  useful,  taking  steps,  and  running 
"  arrants  "  for  her.  \ 

Mr.  Samuel  and  his  wife  hesitated  a  little,  when 
this  plan  was  proposed.  In  spite  of  the  trouble 
she  gave  them,  they  were  attached  to  Ann,  and 
did  not  like  to  part  with  her,  and  Mrs.  Polly  was 
just  getting  her  "larnt"  her  own  ways,  as  she 
put  it.  Privately,  she  feared  Grandma  would 
undo  all  the  good  she  had  done,  in  teaching 
Ann  to  be  smart  and  capable.  Finally  they 
gave  in,  with  the  understanding  that  it  was 
not  to  be  considered  necessarily  a  permanent 
arrangement,  and  Ann  went  to  live  with  the 
old  lady. 

Mrs.  Dorcas  did  not  relish  this  any  more  than 


DEACON  THOMAS  WAL£S*S  WILL,  33 

she  did  the  appropriation  of  the  southwest  fire- 
room.  She  had  never  liked  Ann  very  well.  Be 
sides,  she  had  two  little  girls  of  her  own,  and  she 
fancied  Ann  rivalled  them  in  Grandma's  affection. 
So,  soon  after  the  girl  was  established  in  the 
house,  she  began  to  show  out  in  various  little 
ways. 

Thirsey,  her  youngest  child,  was  a  mere  baby, 
a  round  fat  dumpling  of  a  thing.  She  was  sweet 
and  good-natured,  and  the  pet  of  the  whole  family. 
Ann  was  very  fond  of  playing  with  her,  and  tend 
ing  her,  and  Mrs.  Dorcas  began  to  take  advan 
tage  of  it.  The  minute  Ann  was  at  liberty  she 
was  called  upon  to  take  care  of  Thirsey.  The 
constant  carrying  about  such  a  heavy  child  soon 
began  to  make  her  shoulders  stoop  and  ache. 
Then  Grandma  took  up  the  cudgels.  She  was 
smart  and  high-spirited,  but  she  was  a  very 
peaceable  old  lady  on  her  own  account,  and 
resolved  "to  put  up  with  everything  from 
Dorcas,  rather  than  have  strife  in  the  family." 
She  was  not  going  to  see  this  helpless  little  girl 
imposed  on,  however.  "  The  little  gal  ain't  goin' 
to  get  bent  all  over,  tendin*  that  heavy  baby, 


34  '*#  COLONIAL    TIMES, 

Dorcas,"  she  proclaimed.  "  You  can  jist  make 
your  mind  up  to  it.  She  didn't  come  here  to  do 
sech  work." 

So  Dorcas  had  to  make  up  her  mind  to  it. 

Ann's  principal  duties  were  scouring  "the 
brasses"  in  Grandma's  room,  taking  steps  for 
her,  and  spinning  her  stint  every  day.  Grandma 
set  smaller  stints  than  Mrs.  Polly.  As  time  went 
on,  she  helped  about  the  cooking.  She  and 
Grandma  cooked  their  own  victuals,  and  ate 
from  a  little  separate  table  in  the  common 
kitchen.  It  was  a  very  large  room,  and  might 
have  accommodated  several  families,  if  they  could 
have  agreed.  There  was  a  big  oven,  and  a 
roomy  fireplace.  Good  Deacon  Wales  had 
probably  seen  no  reason  at  all  why  his  "be 
loved  wife "  should  not  have  her  right  therein 
with  the  greatest  peace  and  concord. 

But  it  soon  came  to  pass  that  Mrs.  Dorcas's 
pots  and  kettles  were  all  prepared  to  hang  on 
the  trammels  when  Grandma's  were,  and  an 
army  of  cakes  and  pies  marshalled  to  go  in  the 
oven  when  Grandma  had  proposed  to  do  some 
baking.  Grandma  bore  it  patiently  for  a  long 


DEACON  THOMAS  WALES%S  WILL.  35 

time;  but  Ann  was  •  with  difficulty  restrained 
from  freeing  her  small  mind,  and  her  black 
eyes  snapped  more  dangerously,  at  every  new 
offence. 

One  morning  Grandma  had  two  loaves  of  "  riz 
bread,"  and  some  election  cakes,  rising,  and  was 
intending  to  bake  them  in  about  an  hour,  when 
they  should  be  sufficiently  light.  What  should 
Mrs.  Dorcas  do,  but  mix  up  sour  milk  bread 
and  some  pies  with  the  greatest  speed,  and  fill 
up  the  oven,  before  Grandma's  cookery  was 
ready ! 

Grandma  sent  Ann  out  into  the  kitchen  to 
put  the  loaves  in  the  oven,  and,  lo  and  behold ! 
the  oven  was  full.  Ann  stood  staring  for  a 
minute,  with  a  loaf  of  election  cake  in  her 
hands;  that  and  the  bread  would  be  ruined  if 
they  were  not  baked  immediately,  as  they  were 
raised  enough.  Mrs.  Dorcas  had  taken  Thirsey 
and  stepped  out  somewhere,  and  there  was  no 
one  in  the  kitchen.  Ann  set  the  election  cake 
back  on  the  table.  Then,  with  the  aid  of  the 
tongs,  she  reached  into  the  brick  oven  and  took 
out  every  one  of  Mrs.  Dorcas's  pies  and  loaves. 


36  IN  COLONIAL   TIMES. 

Then  she  arranged  them  deliberately  in  a  pitiful 
semicircle  on  the  hearth,  and  put  Grandma's 
cookery  in  the  oven. 

She  went  back  to  the  southwest  room  then, 
and  sat  quietly  down  to  her  spinning.  Grandma 
asked  if  she  had  put  the  things  in,  and  she  said 
"  Yes,  ma'am,"  meekly.  There  was  a  bright  red 
spot  on  each  of  her  dark  cheeks. 

When  Mrs.  Dorcas  entered  the  kitchen,  carry 
ing  Thirsey  wrapped  up  in  an  old  homespun 
blanket,  she  nearly  dropped  as  her  gaze  fell  on 
the  fireplace  and  the  hearth.  There  sat  her 
bread  and  pies,  in  the  most  lamentable  half 
baked,  sticky,  doughy  condition  imaginable. 
She  opened  the  oven,  and  peered  in.  There 
were  Grandma's  loaves,  all  a  lovely  brown. 
Out  they  came,  with  a  twitch.  Luckily,  they 
were  done.  Her  own  wenl  in,  but  they  were 
irretrievable  failures. 

Of  course,  quite  a  commotion  came  from  this. 
Dorcas  raised  her  shrill  voice  pretty  high,  and 
Grandma,  though  she  had  been  innocent  of  the 
whole  transaction,  was  so  blamed  that  she  gave 
Dorcas  a  piece  of  her  mind  at  last.  •  Ann  sur- 


DEACON  THOMAS   WALES*S  WILL.  37 

veyed  the  nice  brown  loaves,  and  listened  to  the 
talk  in  secret  satisfaction ;  but  she  had  to  suffer 
for  it  afterward.  Grandma  punished  her  for  the 
first  time,  and  she  discovered  that  that  kind  old 
hand  was  pretty  firm  and  strong.  "  No  matter 
what  you  think  or  whether  you  air  in  the  rights 
on't  or  not,  a  little  gal  mustn't  ever  sass  her 
elders,"  said  Grandma. 

But  if  Ann's  interference  was  blamable,  it 
was  productive  of  one  good  result,  —  the  matter 
came  to  Mr.  Atherton's  ears,  and  he  had  a  stern 
sense  of  justice  when  roused,  and  a  great  vener 
ation  for  his  mother.  His  father's  will  should 
be  carried  out  to  the  letter,  he  declared;  and 
it  was.  Grandma  baked  and  boiled  in  peace, 
outwardly,  at  least,  after  that. 

Ann  was  a  great  comfort  to  her ;  she  was  out 
growing  her  wild,  mischievpus  ways,  and  she  was 
so  bright  and  quick.  She  promised  to  be  pretty, 
too.  Grandma  compared  her  favorably  with  her 
own  grandchildren,  especially  Mrs.  Dorcas's  eld 
est  daughter  Martha,  who  was  nearly  Ann's  age. 
"  Marthy's  a  pretty  little  gal  enough,"  she  used 
to  say,  "  but  she  ain't  got  the  snap  to  her.  that 


38  IN  COLONIAL   TIMES. 

i 

Ann  has,  though  I  wouldn't  tell  Atherton's  wife 
so  for  the  world." 

She  promised  Ann  her  gold  beads,  when  she 
should  be  done  with  them,  under  strict  injunc 
tions  not  to  say  anything  about  it  till  the  time 
came;  for  the  others  might  feel  hard  as  she 
wasn't  her  own  flesh  and  blood,  The  gold 
beads  were  Ann's  ideals  of  beauty  and  richness, 
though  she  did  not  like  to  hear  Grandma  talk 
about  being  "  done  with  them."  Grandma  always 
wore  them  around  her  fair,  plump  old  neck ;  she 
had  never  seen  her  without  her  string  of  beads. 

As  before  said,  Ann  was  now  very  seldom 
mischievous  enough  to  make  herself  serious 
trouble ;  but,  once  in  a  while,  her  natural  pro 
pensities  would  crop  out.  When  they  did,  Mrs. 
Dorcas  was  exceedingly  bitter.  Indeed,  her  dis 
like  of  Ann  was  at  all  times  smouldering,  and 
needed  only  a  slight  fanning  to  break  out. 

One  stormy  winter  day  Mrs.  Dorcas  had  been 
working  till  dark,  making  candle-wicks.  When 
she  came  to  get  tea,  she  tied  the  white  fleecy 
rolls  together,  a  great  bundle  of  them,  and  hung 
them  up  in  the  cellar-way,  over  the  stairs,  to  be 


DEACON  THOMAS   WALES'S   WILL.  39 

out  of  the  way.  They  were  extra  fine  wicks, 
being  made  of  flax  for  the  company  candles. 
"  I've  got  a  good  job  done,"  said  Mrs.  Dorcas,  , 
surveying  them  complacently.  Her  husband  had 
gone  to  Boston,  and  was  not  coming  home  till 
the  next  day,  so  she  had  had  a  nice  chance  to 
work  at  them,  without  as  much  interruption  as 
usual. 

Ann,  going  down  the  cellar  stairs,  with  a 
lighted  candle,  after  some  butter  for  tea,  spied 
the  beautiful  rolls  swinging  overhead.  What 
possessed  her  to,  she  could  not  herself  have  told, 
—  she  certainly  had  no  wish  to  injure  Mrs.  Dor 
cas's  wicks,  —  but  she  pinched  up  a  little  end  of 
the  fluffy  flax,  and  touched  her  candle  to  it. 
She  thought  she  would  see  how  that  little  bit 
would  burn  off.  She  soon  found  out.  The  flame 
caught,  and  ran  like  lightning  through  the  whole 
bundle.  There  was  a  great  puff  of  fire  and 
smoke,  and  poor  Mrs.  Dorcas's  fine  candle-wicks 
were  gone.  Ann  screamed,  and  sprang  down 
stairs.  She  barely  escaped  the  whole  blaze 
coming  in  her  face. 

"  What's  that  I "  shrieked  Mrs.  Dorcas,  rushing 


40  IN  COLONIAL    TIMES. 

to  the  cellar  door.  Words  cannot  describe  her 
feeling  when  she  saw  that  her  nice  candle-wicks, 
the  fruit  of  her  day's  toil,  were  burnt  up. 

If  ever  there  was  a  wretched  culprit  that  night, 
Ann  was.  She  had  not  meant  to  do  wrong,  but 
that,  maybe,  made  it  worse  for  her  in  one  way. 
She  had  not  even  gratified  malice  to  sustain  her. 
Grandma  blamed  her  almost  as  severely  as  Mrs. 
Dorcas.  She  said  she  didn't  know  what  would 
"  become  of  a  little  gal  that  was  so  keerless,"  and 
decreed  that  she  must  stay  at  home  from  school 
and  work  on  candle-wicks  till  Mrs.  Dorcas's  loss 
was  made  good  to  her.  Ann  listened  ruefully. 
She  was  scared  and  sorry,  but  that  did  not  ^eem 
to  help  matters  any.  She  did  not  want  any  sup 
per,  and  she  went  to  bed  early,  and  cried  herself 
to  sleep. 

Somewhere  about  midnight  a  strange  sound 
woke  her  up.  She  called  out  to  Grandma  in 
alarm.  The  same  sound  had  awakened  her. 
"Get  up,  an'  light  a  candle,  child,"  said  she; 
"  I'm  afeard  the  baby's  sick." 

Ann  scarcely  had  the  candle  lighted,  before 
the  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Dorcas  appeared  in 


DEACON  THOMAS   W ALES' S   WILL,  \\ 

her  night-dress,  —  she  was  very  pale,  and  trem 
bling  all  over.  "  Oh,"  she  gasped,  "  it's  the  baby. 
Thirsey's  got  the  croup,  an'  Atherton's  away,  and 
there  ain't  anybody  to  go  for  the  doctor.  Oh, 
what  shall  I  do,  what  shall  I  do  ? "  She  fairly 
wrung  her  hands." 

"  Hev  you  tried  the  skunk's  oil,"  asked  Grand 
ma,  eagerly,  preparing  to  get  up. 

"  Yes,  I  have,  I  have !  It's  a  good  hour  since 
she  woke  up,  an'  I've  tried  everything.  It  hasn't 
done  any  good.  I  thought  I  wouldn't  call  you,  if 
I  could  help  it,  but  she's  worse,  —  only  hear  her! 
An'  Atherton's  away !  Oh,  what  shall  I  do,  what 
shall  I  do  ? " 

"  Don't  take  on  so,  Dorcas,"  said  Grandma, 
tremulously,  but  cheeringly.  "  I'll  come  right 
along,  an'  —  why,  child,  what  air  you  goin'  to  do  ? " 

Ann  had  finished  dressing  herself,  and  now  she 
was  pinning  a  heavy  homespun  blanket  over  her 
head,  as  if  she  were  preparing  to  go  out-doors. 

"  I'm  going  after  the  doctor  for  Thirsey,"  said 
Ann,  her  black  eyes  flashing  with  determination. 

"  Oh,  will  you,  will  you  ? "  cried  Mrs.  Dorcas, 
catching  at  this  new  help. 


42  /y  COLONIAL   TIMES. 

"  Hush,  Dorcas,"  said  Grandma,  sternly.  "  It's 
an  awful  storm  out,  —  jist  hear  the  wind  blow! 
It  ain't  fit  fur  her  to  go.  Her  life's  jist  as 
precious  as  Thirsey's." 

Ann  said  nothing  more,  but  she  went  into  her 
own  little  room  with  the  same  determined  look 
in  her  eyes.  There  was  a  door  leading  from  this 
room  into  the  kitchen.  Ann  slipped  through  it 
hastily,  lit  a  lantern  which  was  hanging  beside 
the  kitchen  chimney,  and  was  out-doors  in  a 
minute. 

The  storm  was  one  of  sharp,  driving  sleet, 
which  struck  her  face  like  so  many  needles. 
The  first  blast,  as  she  stepped  outside  the  door, 
seemed  to  almost  force  her  back,  but  her  heart 
did  not  fail  her.  The  snow  was  not  so  very  deep, 
but  it  was  hard  walking.  There  was  no  pretence 
of  a  path.  The  doctor  lived  half  a  mile  away, 
and  there  was  not  a  house  in  the  whole  distance, 
save  the  meeting-house  and  schoolhouse.  It  was 
very  dark.  Lucky  it  was  that  she  had  taken 
the  lantern ;  she  could  not  have  found  her  way 
without  it. 

On  kept  the  little  slender,  erect  figure,  with 


DEACON  THOMAS   WAL£S*S   WILL.  43 

the  fierce  determination  in  its  heart,  through  the 
snow  and  sleet,  holding  the  blanket  close  over  its 
head,  and  swinging  the  feeble  lantern  bravely. 

When  she  reached  the  doctor's  house,  he  was 
gone.  He  had  started  for  the  North  Precinct 
early  in  the  evening,  his  good  wife  said ;  he  was 
called  down  to  Captain  Isaac  Lovejoy's,  the 
house  next  the  North  Precinct  meeting-house, 
She'd  been  sitting  up  waiting  for  him,  it  was 
such  an  awful  storm,  and  such  a  lonely  road.. 
She  was  worried,  but  she  didn't  think  he'd  start 
for  home  that  night;  she  guessed  he'd  stay  at 
Captain  Lovejoy's  till  morning. 

The  doctor's  wife,  holding  her  door  open  as 
best  she  could,  in  the  violent  wind,  had  hardly 
given  this  information  to  the  little  snow-be 
draggled  object  standing  out  there  in  the  inky 
darkness,  through  which  the  lantern  made  a  faint 
circle  of  light,  before  she  had  disappeared. 

"She  went  like  a  speerit,"  said  the  good 
woman,  staring  out  into  the  blackness  in  amaze 
ment.  She  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing  as 
Ann's  going  to  the  North  Precinct  after  the 
doctor,  but  that  was  what  the  daring  girl  had 


44  *N  COLONIAL    T/A/JSS. 

determined  to  do.  She  had  listened  to  the  doc 
tor's  wife  in  dismay,  but  with  never  one  doubt  as 
to  her  own  course  of  proceeding. 

Straight  along  the  road  to  the  North  Precinct 
she  kept.  It  would  have  been  an  awful  journey 
that  night  for  a  strong  man.  It  seemed  incredible 
that  a  little  girl  could  have  the  strength  or  cour 
age  to  accomplish  it.  There  were  four  miles  to 
traverse  in  a  black,  howling  storm,  over  a  path 
less  road,  through  forests,  with  hardly  a  house  by 
the  way. 

When  she  reached  Captain  Isaac  Lovejoy's 
house,  next  to  the  meeting-house  in  the  North 
Precinct  of  Braintree,  stumbling  blindly  into  the 
warm,  lighted  kitchen,  the  captain  and  the  doctor 
could  hardly  believe  their  senses.  She  told  the 
doctor  about  Thirsey;  then  she  almost  fainted 
from  cold  and  exhaustion. 

Goodwife  Lovejoy  laid  her  on  the  settee,  and 
brewed  her  some  hot  herb  tea.  She  almost  for 
got  her  own  sick  little  girl,  for  a  few  minutes,  in 
trying  to  restore  this  brave  child  who  had  come 
from  the  South  Precinct  in  this  dreadful  storm 
to  save  little  Thirsey  Wales's  life. 


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DEACON  THOMAS    WALES*S   WILL.  47 

When  Ann  came  to  herself  a  little,  her  first 
question  was,  if  the  doctor  were  ready  to  go. 

"  He's  gone,"  said  Mrs.  Lovejoy,  cheeringly. 

Ann  felt  disappointed.  She  had  thought  she 
was  going  back  with  him.  But  that  would  have 
been  impossible.  She  could  not  have  stood  the 
journey  for  the  second  time  that  night,  even  on 
horseback  behind  the  doctor,  as  she  had  planned. 

She  drank  a  second  bowlful  of  herb  tea,  and 
went  to  bed  with  a  hot  stone  at  her  feet,  and  a 
great  many  blankets  and  coverlets  over  her. 

The  next  morning  Captain  Lovejoy  carried 
her  home.  He  had  a  rough  wood  sled,  and  she 
rode  on  that,  on  an  old  quilt ;  it  was  easier  than 
horseback,  and  she  was  pretty  lame  and  tired. 

Mrs.  Dorcas  saw  her  coming  and  opened  the 
door.  When  Ann  came  up  on  the  stoop,  she 
just  threw  her  arms  around  her  and  kissed  her. 

"You  needn't  make  the  candle-wicks,"  said 
she.  "  It's  no  matter  about  them  at  all.  Thirsey's 
better  this  morning,  an'  I  guess  you  saved  her 
life." 

Grandma  was  fairly  bursting  with  pride  and 
delight  in  her  little  gal's  brave  feat,  now  that  she 


48  IN  COLONIAL    TIMES. 

saw  her  safe.  She  untied  the  gold  beads  on 
her  neck,  and  fastened  them  around  Ann's. 
"There,"  said  she,  "you  may  wear  them  to 
school  to-day,  if  you'll  be  keerful," 

That  day,  with  the  gold  beads  by  way  of  cele 
bration,  began  a  new  era  in  Ann's  life.  There 
was  no  mo*"?  secret  animosity  between  her  and 
Mrs.  Dorcas.  The  doctor  had  come  that  night 
in  the  very  nick  of  time.  Thirsey  was  almost 
dying.  Her  mother  was  fully  convinced  that 
Ann  had  saved  her  life,  and  she  never  forgot  it. 
She  was  a  woman  of  strong  feelings,  who  never 
did  things  by  halves,  and  she  not  only  treated 
Ann  with  kindness,  but  she  seemed  to  smother 
her  grudge  against  Grandma  tor  robbing  her  of 
the  southwest  fire-room. 


CHAPTER   III, 

THE   ADOPTED   DAUGHTER. 

THE  Inventory  of  the  Estate  of  Samuel  Wales  Late  of 
Braintree,   Taken    by  the   Subscribers,   March    the   i4th, 
1761. 
His  Purse  in  Cash    .        .        .        .        .        .  ^11-15-01 

His  apparrel    .......      10-11-00 

His  watch        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        2-13-04 

The  Best  Bed  with  two  Coverlids,  three  sheets, 

two  underbeds,  two  Bolsters,  two  pillows, 

Bedstead  rope £6 

One  mill  Blanket,  two  Phlanel  sheets,  12  toe 

Sheets ,£3-4-8 

Eleven  Towels  &  table  Cloth  .  .  .  .  0-15-0 
a  pair  of  mittens  &  pr,  of  Gloves  .  .  .  0-2-0 
a  neck  Handkerchief  &  neckband  .  .  .  0-4-0 
an  ovel  Tabel — Two  other  Tabels  .  .  .  1-12-  o 

A  Chist  with  Draws 2-8-  o 

Another  Low  Chist  with  Draws  &  three  other 

Chists i-io-  o 

Six  best  Chears  and  a  great  chear  ,  .  .  i-  6-  o 
a  warming  pan  —  Two  Brass  Kittles  .  .  1-5-0 
a  Small  Looking  Glass,  five  Pewter  Basons  .  0-7-8 

49 


$0  IN  COLONIAL    TIMES. 

fifteen  other  Chears          .        .        .        .        .  0-15-0 

fire  arms,  Sword  &  bayonet      .        .        ..       .  1-4-0 

Six  Porringers,  four  platters,  Two  Pewter  Pots .  ;£i-  o-  4 

auger  Chisel,  Gimlet,  a  Bible  &  other  Books     .  0-15-  o 

A  chese  press,  great  spinning-wheel,  &  spindle .  0-9-4 

a  smith's  anvil          .        .                 .        .        .  3-12-  o 

the  Pillion        ...        .        .        .        .  o-  8-  o 

a  Bleu  Jacket  .  .  .  .  .  .  .0-0-3 

AARON  WHITCOMB, 

SILAS  WHITE. 

The  foregoing  is  only  a  small  portion  of  the 
original  inventory  of  Samuel  Wales's  estate,  He 
was  an  exceedingly  well-to-do  man  for  these 
times.  He  had  a  good  many  acres  of  rich 
pasture  and  woodland,  and  considerable  live 
stock.  Then  his  home  was  larger  and  more 
comfortable  than  was  usual  then ;  and  his  stock 
of  household  utensils  plentiful. 

He  died  three  years  after  Ann  Ginnins  went 
to  live  with  Grandma,  when  she  was  about  thir 
teen  years  old.  Grandma  spared  her  to  Mrs. 
Polly  for  a  few  weeks  after  the  funeral ;  there 
was  a  great  deal  to  be  done,  and  she  needed 
some  extra  help.  And,  after  all,  Ann  was 
legally  bound  to  her,  and  her  lawful  servant, 


THE  ADOPTED  DAUGHTER,  $1 

So  the  day  after  good  Samuel  Wales  was  laid 
away  in  the  little  Braintree  burying-ground,  Ann 
returned  to  her  old  quarters  for  a  little  while. 
She  did  not  really  want  to  go;  but  she  did  not 
object  to  the  plan  at  all.  She  was  sincerely 
sorry  for  poor  Mrs.  Polly,  and  wanted  to  help 
her,  if  she  could.  She  mourned,  herself,  for 
Mr.  Samuel.  He  had  always  been  very  kind 
to  her. 

Mrs.  Polly  had  for  company,  besides  Ann, 
Nabby  Porter,  Grandma's  old  hired  woman 
whom  she  had  made  over  to  her,  and  a  young 
man  who  had  been  serving  as  apprentice  to 
Mr.  Samuel.  His  name  was  Phineas  Adams. 
He  was  very  shy  and  silent,  but  a  good 
workman. 

Samuel  Wales  left  a  will  bequeathing  every 
thing  to  his  widow;  that  was  solemnly  read  in 
the  fore-room  one  afternoon ;  then  the  inventory 
had  to  be  taken.  That,  on  account  of  the  amount 
of  property,  was  quite  an  undertaking;  but  it 
was  carried  out  with  the  greatest  formality  and 
precision. 

For  several  days   Mr.  Aaron  Whitcomb  and 


52  IN  COLONIAL    TIMES. 

Mr.  Silas  White  were  stalking  majestically  about 
the  premises,  with  note-books  and  pens.  Aaron 
Whitcomb  was  a  grave,  portly  old  man,  with  a 
large  head  of  white  hair.  Silas  White  was  little 
and  wiry  and  fussy.  He  monopolized  the  greater 
part  of  the  business,  although  he  was  not  half  as 
well  fitted  for  it  as  his  companion. 

They  pried  into  everything  with  religious  ex 
actitude.  Mrs.  Polly  watched  them  with  beseem 
ing  awe  and  deference,  but  it  was  a  great  trial  to 
her,  and  she  grew  very  nervous  over  it.  It  seemed 
dreadful  to  have  all  her  husband's  little  personal 
effects,  down  to  his  neck-band  and  mittens,  han 
dled  over,  and  their  worth  in  shillings  and  pence 
calculated.  She  had  a  price  fixed  on  them  already 
in  higher  currency. 

Ann  found  her  crying  one  afternoon,  sitting 
on  the  kitchen  settle,  with  her  apron  over  her 
head.  When  she  saw  the  little  girl's  pitying 
look,  she  poured  out  her  trouble  to  her. 

"  They've  just  been  valuing  his  mittens  and 
gloves,"  said  she,  sobbing,  "  at  two-and-sixpence. 
I  shall  be  thankful  when  they  are  through." 

"  Are  there  any  more  of  Ms  things  ? "  asked 


THE  ADOPTED  DAUGHTER.  53 

Ann,  her  black  eyes  Bashing,  with  the  tears  in 
them. 

"  I  think  they've  seen  about  all.  There's  his 
blue  jacket  he  used  to  milk  in,  a-hanging  behind 
the  shed  door —  I  guess  they  haven't  valued  that 
yet." 

" 1  think  it's  a  shame  ! "  quoth  Ann.  "  I  don't 
believe  there's  any  need  of  so  much  law." 

"  Hush,  child !  You  mustn't  set  yourself  up 
against  the  judgment  of  your  elders.  Such 
things  have  to  be  done." 

Ann  said  no  more,  but  the  indignant  sparkle 
did  not  fade  out  of  her  eyes  at  all.  She  watched 
her  opportunity,  and  took  down  Mr.  Wales's  old 
blue  jacket  from  its  peg  behind  the  shed  door, 
ran  with  it  up-stairs  and  hid  it  in  her  own  room 
behind  the  bed.  "  There,"  said  she,  "  Mrs.  Wales 
sha'n't  cry  over  that  /  " 

That  night,  at  tea-time,  the  work  of  taking  the 
inventory  was  complete.  Mr.  Whitcomb  and 
Mr.  White  walked  away  with  their  long  lists, 
satisfied  that  they  had  done  their  duty  according 
to  the  law.  Every  article  of  Samuel  Wales's 
property,  from  a  warming-pan  to  a  chest  of 


54  W  COLONIAL    TIMES. 

drawers,  was  set  down,  with  the  sole  exception 
of  that  old  blue  jacket  which  4r*n  ha'd  hidden. 

She  felt  complacent  over  it  at  first ;  then  she 
begun  to  be  uneasy. 

"Nabby,"  said  she,  confidentially,  to  the  old 
servant  woman,  when  they  were  washing  the 
pewter  plates  together  after  supper,  "  what 
would  they  do,  if  anybody  shouldn't  let  them 
set  down  all  the  things  —  if  they  hid  some  of 
'em  away,  I  mean  ? " 

"  They'd  make  a  dretful  time  on't,"  said  Nabby, 
impressively,  She  was  a  large,  stern-looking  old 
woman.  ".  They  air  dretful  perticklar  'bout  these 
things.  They  hev  to  be." 

Ann  was  scared  when  she  heard  that  When 
the  dishes  were  done,  she  sat  down  on  the  settle 
and  thought  it  over,  and  made  up  her  mind  what 
to  do. 

The  next  morning,  in  the  frosty  dawning,  be 
fore  the  rest  of  the  family  were  up,  a  slim,  erect 
little  figure  could  have  been  seen  speeding  across 
lots  toward  Mr.  Silas  White's.  She  had  the  old 
blue  jacket  tucked  under  her  arm.  When  she 
reached  the  house,  she  spied  Mr.  White  just 


THE  ADOPTED  DAUGHTER.  55 

.'**•• 

coming  out  of  the  back  door  with  a  milking  pail 
He  carried  a  lantern,  too,  for  it  was  hardly  light. 

He  stopped,  and  stared,  when  Ann  ran  up  to 
him. 

"  Mr.  White,"  said  she,  all  breathless,  "  here's 
—  something — I  guess  yer  didn't  see  yesterday." 

Mr.  White  set  down  the  milk  pail,  took  the 
blue  jacket  which  she  handed  him,  and  scruti 
nized  it  sharply,  by  the  light  of  the  lantern. 

"  I  guess  we  didn't  see  it,"  said  he,  finally. 

"  I  will  put  it  down  —  it's  worth  about  three 
pence,  I  judge.  Where  —  " 

"  Silas,  Silas  I "  called  a  shrill  voice  from  the 
house.  Silas  White  dropped  the  jacket  and 
trotted  briskly  in,  his  lantern  bobbing  agitatedly. 
He  never  delayed  a  moment  when  his  wife 
called;  important  and  tyrannical  as  the  little 
man  was  abroad,  he  had  his  own  tyrant  at  home. 

Ann  did  not  wait  for  him  to  return;  she 
snatched  up  the  blue  jacket  and  fled  home,  leap 
ing  like  a  little  deer  over  the  hoary  fields.  She 
hung  up  the  precious  old  jacket  behind  the  shed 
door  again,  and  no  one  ever  knew  the  whole 
story  of  its  entrance  in  the  inventory.  If  she 


56  IN  COLONIAL   TIMES. 

had  been  questioned,  she  would  have  told  the 
truth  boldly,  though.1  But  Samuel  Wales's  In 
ventory  had  for  its  last  item  that  blue  jacket, 
spelled  after  Silas  White's  own  individual 
method,  as  was  many  another  word  in  the  long 
list.  Silas  White  consulted  his  own  taste  with 
respect  to  capital  letters,  too. 

After  a  few  weeks,  Grandma  said  she  must 
have  Ann  again ;  and  back  she  went.  Grandma 
was  very  feeble  lately,  and  everybody  humored 
her.  Mrs.  Polly  was  sorry  to  have  the  little  girl 
leave  her.  She  said  it  was  wonderful  how  much 
she  had  improved.  But  she  would  not  have  ad 
mitted  that  the  improvement  was  owing  to  the 
different  influence  she  had  been  under;  she  said 
Ann  had  outgrown  her  mischievous  ways. 

Grandma  did  not  live  very  long  after  this,  how 
ever.  Mrs.  Polly  had  her  bound  girl  at  her  own 
disposal  in  a  year's  time.  Poor  Ann  was  sorrow 
ful  enough  for  a  long  while  after  Grandma's 
death.  She  wore  the  beloved  gold  beads  around 
her  neck,  and  a  sad  ache  in  her  heart.  The  dear 
old  woman  had  taken  the  beads  off  her  neck 
with  her  own  hands  and  given  them  to  Ann  be- 


THE  ADOPTED  DAUGHTER.  57 

fore  she  died,  that  there  might  be  no  mistake 
about  it. 

Mrs.  Polly  said  she  was  glad  Ann  had  them. 
"You  might  jist  as  well  have  'em  as  Dorcas's 
girl,"  said  she;  "she  set  enough  sight  more  by 
you." 

Ann  could  not  help  growing  cheerful  again, 
after  a  while.  Affairs  in  Mrs.  Polly's  house  were 
much  brighter  for  her,  in  some  ways,  than  they 
had  ever  been  before. 

Either  the  hot  iron  of  affliction  had  smoothed 
some  of  the  puckers  out  of  her  mistress's  disposi 
tion,  or  she  was  growing,  naturally,  less  sharp 
and  dictatorial.  Anyway,  she  was  becoming  as 
gentle  and  loving  with  Ann  as  it  was  in  her 
nature  to  be,  and  Ann,  following  her  impulsive 
temper,  returned  all  the  affection  with  vigor,  and 
never  bestowed  a  thought  on  past  unpleasantness. 

For  the  next  two  years,  Ann's  position  in  the 
family  grew  to  be  more  and  more  that  of  a 
daughter.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  indentures 
lying  serenely  in  that  tall,  wooden  desk,  she 
would  almost  have  forgotten  herself  that  she  was 
a  bound  girl. 


58  W  COLONIAL   TIMES. 

One  spring  afternoon,  when  Ann  was  about 
sixteen  years  old,  her  mistress  called  her  sol 
emnly  into  the  fore-room.  "  Ann,"  said  she, 
"come  here,  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Nabby  stared  wonderingly;  and  Ann,  as  she 
obeyed,  felt  awed.  There  was  something  unusual 
in  her  mistress's  tone. 

Standing  there  in  the  fore-room,  in  the  august 
company  of  the  best  bed,  with  its  high  posts 
and  flowered-chintz  curtains,  the  best  chest  of 
drawers,  and  the  best  chairs,  Ann  listened  to 
what  Mrs.  Polly  had  to  tell  her,  It  was  a  plan 
which  almost  took  her  breath  away;  for  it  was 
this:  Mrs,  Polly  proposed  to  adopt  her,  and 
change  her  name  to  Wales.  She  would  be  no 
longer  Ann  Ginnins,  and  a  bound  girl ;  but  Ann 
Wales,  and  a  daughter  in  her  mother's  home. 

Ann  dropped  into  one  of  the  best  chairs,  and 
sat  there,  her  little  dark  face  very  pale.  "  Should 
I  have  the  — papers  ?  "  she  gasped  at  length. 

4  Your  papers  ?  Yes,  child,  you  can  have 
them," 

"  I  don't  want  them !  "  cried  Ann.  •'  Never.  I 
want  them  to  stay  just  where  they  are  till  my 


THE  ADOPTED  DAUGHTER.  59 

time  is  out.  If  I  am  adopted,  I  don't  want  the 
papers ! " 

Mrs.  Polly  stared.  She  had  never  known  how 
Ann  had  taken  the  indentures  with  her  on  her 
runaway  trip  years  ago,  but  now  Ann  told  her  the 
whole  story.  In  her  gratitude  to  her  mistress, 
and  her  contrition,  she  had  to. 

It  was  so  long  ago  in  Ann's  childhood,  it  did 
not  seem  so  very  dreadful  to  Mrs.  Polly,  probably. 
But  Ann  insisted  on  the  indentures  remaining  in 
the  desk,  even  after  the  papers  of  adoption  were 
made  out,  and  she  had  become  "Ann  Wales." 
It  seemed  to  go  a  little  way  toward  satisfying 
her  conscience.  This  adoption  meant  a  good 
deal  to  Ann;  for,  besides  a  legal  home  and  a 
mother,  it  secured  to  her  a  right  in  a  comfortable 
property  in  the  future.  Mrs.  Polly  Wales  was 
considered  very  well  off.  She  was  a  smart  busi 
ness  woman,  and  knew  how  to  take  care  of  her 
property,  too.  She  still  hired  Phineas  Adams  to 
carry  on  the  blacksmith's  business,  and  kept  her 
farm-work  running  just  as  her  husband  had, 
Neither  she  nor  Ann  were  afraid  of  work,  and 
Ann  Wales  used  to  milk  the  cows,  and  escort 


6O  JN  COLOfHAL    TIMES. 

them  to  and  from  pasture,  as  faithfully  as  Ann 
Ginnins. 

It  was  along  in  spring-time  when  Ann  was 
adopted,  and  Mrs.  Polly  fulfilled  her  part  of  the 
contract  in  the  indentures  by  getting  the  Sunday 
suit  therein  spoken  of. 

They  often  rode  on  horseback  to  meeting,  but 
they  usually  walked  on  the  fine  Sundays  in  spring. 
Ann  had  probably  never  been  so  happy  in  her 
life  as  she  was  walking  by  Mrs.  Polly's  side  to 
meeting  that  first  Sunday  after  her  adoption. 
Most  of  the  way  was  through  the  woods;  the 
tender  light  green  boughs  met  over  their  heads ; 
the  violets  and  anemones  were  springing  beside 
their  path.  There  were  green  buds  and  white 
blossoms  all  around;  the  sky  showed  blue  be 
tween  the  waving  branches,  and  the  birds  were 
singing. 

Ann,  in  her  pretty  petticoat  of  rose-colored 
stuff,  stepping  daintily  over  the  young  grass  and 
the  flowers,  looked  and  felt  like  a  part  of  it  all 
Her  dark  cheeks  had  a  beautiful  red  glow  or 
them ;  her  black  eyes  shone.  She  was  as  straight 
and  graceful  and  stately  as  an  Indian. 


THE  ADOPTED   DAUGHTER.  6 1 

"  She's  as  handsome  as  a  picture,"  thought 
Mrs.  Polly  in  her  secret  heart.  A  good  many 
people  said  that  Ann  resembled  Mrs.  Polly  in 
her  youth,  and  that  may  have  added  force  to  her 
admiration. 

Her  new  gown  was  very  fine  for  those  days ; 
but  fine  as  she  was,  and  adopted  daughter  though 
she  was,  Ann  did  not  omit  her  thrifty  ways  for 
once.  This  identical  morning  Mrs.  Polly  and 
she  carried  their  best  shoes  under  their  arms, 
and  wore  their  old  ones,  till  within  a  short  dis 
tance  from  the  meeting-house.  Then  the  old 
shoes  were  tucked  away  under  a  stone  wall  for 
safety,  and  the  best  ones  put  on.  Stone  walls, 
very  likely,  sheltered  a  good  many  well-worn 
little  shoes,  of  a  Puritan  Sabbath,  that  their 
prudent  owners  might  appear  in  the  house  of 
God  trimly  shod.  Ah,  these  beautiful,  new, 
peaked-toed,  high-heeled  shoes  of  Ann's,  —  what 
would  she  have  said  to  walking  in  them  all  the 
way  to  meeting ! 

If  that  Sunday  was  an  eventful  one  to  Ann 
Wales,  so  was  the  week  following.  The  next 
Tuesday,  right  after  dinner,  she  was  up  in  a  little 


62  /AT  COLONIAL    TIMES. 

unfinished  chamber  over  the  kitchen,  where  they 
did  such  work  when  the  weather  permitted,  card 
ing  wool.  All  at  once  she  heard  voices  down 
below.  They  had  a  strange  inflection,  which 
gave  her  warning  at  once.  She  dropped  her 
work  and  listened.  "What  ts  the  matter?" 
thought  she. 

Then  there  was  a  heavy  tramp  on  the  stairs 
and  Captain  Abraham  French  stood  in  the 
door,  his  stern,  weather-beaten  face  white  and 
set.  Mrs.  Polly  followed  him,  looking  very 
pale  and  excited. 

44  When  did  you  see  anything  of  our  Han 
nah?"  asked  Captain  French,  controlling  as 
best  he  could  the  tremor  in  his  resolute  voice. 

Ann  rose,  gathering  up  her  big  blue  apron, 
cards,  wool,  and  all.  4t  Oh,"  she  cried, 4<  not  since 
last  Sabbath,  at  meeting !  What  is  it  ?  " 

44  She's  lost,"  answered  Captain  French.  44  She 
started  to  go  up  to  her  Aunt  Sarah's  Monday 
forenoon,  and  Enos  has  just  been  down,  and 
they  haven't  seen  anything  of  her."  Poor  Cap 
tain  French  gave  a  deep  groan. 

Then  they  all  went   down   into   the   kitchen 


THE  ADOPTED  DAUGHTER.  63 

together,  talking  and  .lamenting.  And  then, 
Captain  French'  was  galloping  away  on  his 
gray  horse  to  call  assistance,  and  Ann  was  fly 
ing  away  over  the  fields,  blue  apron,  cards,  wool, 
and  all. 

"  Oh,  Ann  I "  Mrs.  Polly  cried  after,  "  where  are 
you  going  ?  " 

"  I'm  going — to  find—ffanna/t  /"  Ann  shouted 
back,  in  a  shrill,  desperate  voice,  and  kept  on. 

She  had  no  definite  notion  as  to  where  she 
was  going;  she  had  only  one  thought, —  Han 
nah  French,  her  darling,  tender  little  Hannah 
French,  her  friend  whom  she  loved  better  than 
a  sister,  was  lost. 

A  good  three  miles  from  the  Wales  home  was 
a  large  tract  of  rough  land,  half  swamp,  known 
as  "  Bear  Swamp."  There  was  an  opinion,  more 
or  less  correct,  that  bears  might  be  found  there. 
Some  had  been  shot  in  that  vicinity.  Why  Ann 
turned  her  footsteps  in  that  direction,  she  could 
not  have  told  herself.  Possibly  the  vague  impres 
sion  of  conversations  she  and  Hannah  had  had, 
lingering  in  her  mind,  had  something  to  do  with 
it.  Many  a  time  the  two  little  girls  had  remarked 


64  IN  COLONIAL   T1MRS. 

to  each  other,  with  a  shudder,    "  How  awful  it 
would  be  to  get  lost  in  Bear  Swamp. 

Anyway,  Ann  went  straight  there,  through 
pasture  and  woodland,  over  ditches  and  stone 
walls,  She  knew  every  step  of  the  way  for  a 
long  distance.  When  she  gradually  got  into 
the  unfamiliar  wilderness  of  the  swamp,  a 
thought  struck  her,  —  suppose  she  got  lost 
too!  It  would  be  easy  enough,  —  the  unbroken 
forest  stretched  for  miles  in  some  directions. 
She  would  not  find  a  living  thing  but  Indians; 
and,  maybe,  wild  beasts,  the  whole  distance. 

If  she  should  get  lost  she  would  not  find 
Hannah,  and  the  people  would  have  to  hunt 
for  her,  too.  But  Ann  had  quick  wits  for  an 
emergency.  She  had  actually  carried  those 
cards,  with  a  big  wad  of  wool  between  them 
all  the  time,  in  her  gathered-up  apron.  Now 
she  began  picking  off  little  bits  of  wool  and 
marking  her  way  with  them,  sticking  them  on 
the  trees  and  bushes.  Every  few  feet  a  fluffy 
scrap  of  wool  showed  the  road  Ann  had  gone. 

But  poor  Ann  went  on,  farther  and  farther, — 
and  no  sign  of  Hannah.  She  kept  calling  her, 


THE  ADOPTED  DAUGHTER,  6$ 

from  time  to  time,  hallooing  at  the  top  of  her 
shrill,  sweet  voice :  "  Hannah  1  Hannah  1  Hannah 
Fre-nch." 

But  never  a  response  got  the  dauntless  little 
girl,  slipping  almost  up  to  her  knees,  sometimes, 
in  black  swamp-mud ;  and  sometimes  stumbling 
painfully  over  tree-stumps,  and  through  tangled 
undergrowth. 

"  111  go  till  my  wool  gives  out,"  said  Ann 
Wales;  then  she  used  it  more  sparingly. 

But  it  was  almost  gone  before  she  thought  she 
heard  in  the  distance  a  faint  little  cry  in  response 
to  her  call :  "  Hannah  !  Hannah  Fie-nch  1 "  She 
called  again  and  listened.  Yes ;  she  certainly  did 
hear  a  little  cry  off  toward  the  west.  Calling 
from  time  to  time,  she  went  as  nearly  as  she 
could  in  that  direction.  The  pitiful  answering 
cry  grew  louder  and  nearer;  finally  Ann  could 
distinguish  Hannah's  voice. 

Wild  with  joy,  she  came  at  last  upon  her  sit 
ting  on  a  fallen  hemlock-tree,  her  pretty  face  pale, 
and  her  sweet  blue  eyes  strained  with  terror. 

"  Oh,  Hannah ! " 

"  Oh,  Ann !  " 


66  IN  COLONIAL   TIMR& 

"  How  did  you  ever  get  here,  Hannah  ? M 
"I  —  started  for  Aunt  Sarah's  —  that  morning," 
explained  Hannah,  between  sobs,  "  And  —  I 
got  frightened  in  the  woods,  about  a  mile  from 
father's.  I  saw  something  ahead  I  thought  was 
a  bear.  A  great  black  thing  I  Then  I  ran  — 
and,  somehow,  the  first  thing  I  knew,  I  was  lost. 
I  walked  and  walked,  and  it  s,eems  to  me  I  kept 
coming  right  back  to  the  same  place.  Finally,  I 
sat  down  here,  and  stayed ;  I  thought  it  was  all 
the  way  for  me  to  be  found." 

"  Oh,  Hannah,  what  did  you  do  last  night  ? " 
"  I  stayed  somewhere,  under  some  pine-trees," 
replied    Hannah,   with   a  shudder,  "  and  I  kept 
hearing  things  —  oh,  Ann  ! " 

Ann  hugged  her  sympathizingly.  "  I  guess  I 
wouldn't  have  slept  much  if  I  had  known,"  said 
she.  "  Oh,  Hannah,  you  haven't  had  anything  to 
eat !  Ain't  you  starved  ? " 

Hannah  laughed  faintly.  "  I  ate  up  two  whole 
pumpkin  pies  I  was  carrying  to  Aunt  Sarah,"  said 
she. 

"  Oh,  how  lucky  it  was  you  had  them  I " 
"Yes;  mother  called  me  back  to  get  them, 


TffM  ADOPTED  DAVGtfT&R.  6f 

after  I  started.  They  were  some  new  ones,  made 
with  cream,  and  she  thought  Aunt  Sarah  would 
like  them." 

Pretty  soon  they  started.  It  was  hard  work ;  for 
the  way  was  very  rough,  and  poor  Hannah  weak. 
But  Ann  had  a  good  deal  of  strength  in  her  lithe 
young  frame,  and  she  half  carried  Hannah  over 
the  worst  places.  Still,  both  of  the  girls  were 
pretty  well  spent  when  they  came  to  the  last  of 
the  bits  of  wool  on  the  border  of  Bear  Swamp. 
However,  they  kept  on  a  little  farther ;  then  they 
had  to  stop  and  rest.  "  I  know  where  I  am  now," 
said  Hannah,  with  a  sigh  of  delight ;  "  but  I  don't 
think  I  can  walk  another  step."  She  was,  in 
fact,  almost  exhausted. 

Ann  looked  at  her  thoughtfully.  She  hardly 
knew  what  to  do.  She  could  not  carry  Hannah 
herself,  —  indeed,  her  own  strength  began  to  fail ; 
and  she  did  not  want  to  leave  her  to  go  for 
assistance. 

All  of  a  sudden  she  jumped  up^  "You  stay 
just  where  you  are  a  few  minutes,  Hannah,"  said 
she.  "  I'm  going  somewhere,  I'll  be  back  soon." 
Ann  was  laughing. 


68  IN  COLONIAL    TIMES. 

Hannah  looked  up  at  her  pitifully  i  "  Oh,  Ann, 
don't  go!" 

"  I'm  coming  right  back,  and  it  is  the  only 
way.  You  must  get  home.  Only  think  how 
your  father  and  mother  are  worrying!" 

Hannah  said  no  more  after  that  mention  of 
her  parents,  and  Ann  started. 

She  was  not  gone  long.  When  she  came  in 
sight  she  was  laughing,  and  Hannah,  weak  as 
she  was,  laughed  too.  Ann  had  torn  her  blue 
apron  into  strips,  and  tied  it  together  for  a  rope, 
and  by  it  she  was  leading  a  red  cow. 

Hannah  knew  the  cow,  and  knew  at  once  what 
the  plan  was. 

"  Oh,  Ann,  you  mean  for  me  to  ride  Betty  I " 

"  Of  course  I  do.  I  just  happened  to  think 
our  cows  were  in  the  pasture,  down  below  here. 
And  we've  ridden  Betty  lots  of  times,  when  we 
were  children,  and  she's  just  as  gentle  now. 
Whoa,  Betty,  good  cow." 

It  was  very  hard  work  to  get  Hannah  on  to  the 
broad  back  of  her  novel  steed,  but  it  was  finally 
accomplished.  Betty  had  been  a  perfect  pet 
from  a  calf,  and  was  exceedingly  gentle.  She 


mi 


:  m 


>\  Cf  «l 
8&ni8mXW  v 


THE  ADOPTED  DAUGHTER.  71 

started  off  soberly  across  the  fields,  with  Hannah 
sitting  on  her  back  and  Ann  leading  her  by  her 
blue  rope. 

It  was  a  funny  cavalcade  for  Captain  Abraham 
French  and  a  score  of  anxious  men  to  meet, 
when  they  were  nearly  in  sight  of  home ;  but  they 
were  too  overjoyed  to  see  much  fun  in  it. 

Hannah  rode  the  rest  of  the  way  with  her 
father  on  his  gray  horse;  and  Ann  walked  joy 
fully  by  her  side,  leading  the  cow. 

Captain  French  and  his  friends  had,  in  fact, 
just  started  to  search  Bear  Swamp,  well  armed 
with  lanterns,  for  night  was  coming  on. 

It  was  dark  when  they  got  home.  Mrs.  French 
was  not  much  more  delighted  to  see  her  beloved 
daughter  Hannah  safe  again,  than  Mrs.  Polly  was 
to  see  Ann. 

She  listened  admiringly  to  the  story  Ann  told. 

44  Nobody  but  you  would  have  thought  of  the 
wool  or  of  the  cow,"  said  she. 

44  I  do  declare,"  cried  Ann,  at  the  mention  of 
the  wool,  44 1  have  lost  the  cards  ! " 

44  Never  mind  the  cards !  "  said  Mrs.  Polly. 


CHAPTER   IV, 

THE    "  HORSE    HOUSE  '*    DEED. 

KNOW  all  Men  By  These  Presents,  that  I  Seth  Towner  of 
Braintree)  in  the  County  of  Suffolk  &  Province  of  the  Massa 
chusetts  Bay  in  New  England,  Gent.  In  Consideration  that 
I  may  promote  &  encourage  the  worship  of  God,  I  have 
given  liberty  to  Ephriam,  and  Atherton  Wales,  &  Th'o:* 
Penniman  of  Stoughton  who  attend  Publick  worship  with  us 
to  erect  a  Stable  or  Horse  House,  on  my  Land  near  the 
Meeting  House,  in  the  South  Precinct  in  Braintree  afores : d, 
to  serve  their  Horses,  while  attending  the  service  of  God  — 
and  to  the  intent  that  the  s : d  Ephriam,  Atherton  &  Thomas, 
their  Heirs  or  assignes  shall  and  may  hereafter  So  long  as 
they  or  any  of  them  incline  or  Desire  to  keep  up  &  maintain 
a  Horse  House  for  the  afores :d  use  and  Purpose;  have 
s : d  Land  whereon  s  : d  House  Stands  without  mollestation  : 
I  the  said  Seth  Towner  for  my  Selfe,  my  Heirs,  exec,  and 
admin.  :  Do  hereby  Covenant  promise  bind  &  oblige  my 
selfe  &  them  to  warrant  &  Defend  the  afores  :d  Privilege 
of  Land,  To  the  s:d  Ephriam  Wales,  Atherton  Wales,  & 
Tho :  *  Penniman  their  Heirs  or  assignes  So  long  as  they  or 
any  of  them  keep  a  Horse  House  their,  for  the  afores  :d  use : 


THE  "HORSE  HOUSE"  DEED.  7) 

they  keeping  s : d  House  in  Such  repair  at  all  times,  as  that 
I  the  s : d  Seth  Towner,  my  Heirs  or  assignes,  may  not 
receive  Damage  by  any  Creature  Coming  through  s : d  House 
into  my  Land  adjoining.  In  Witness  Whereof,  I  the  s:d 
Seth  Towner  have  hereunto  set  my  Hand  &  Seal  the  first 
Day  of  November  One  Thous.  and  Seven  Hundred  Sixty 
&  four :  in  the  fifth  year  of  his  Majesty's  Reign  George  the 
third  King  etc. 
.  Signed  Sealed  and  Del : d 

presence  of  SETH  TOWNER, 

DANIEL  LINFIELD,  SIMEON  THAYER. 

Ann's  two  uncles  by  adoption,  and  Thomas 
Penniman,  of  Stoughton,  were  well  pleased  to 
get  this  permission  to  erect  a  stable,  or  Horse 
House,  as  they  put  it  then,  to  shelter  their  horses 
during  divine  worship.  The  want  of  one  had 
long  been  a  sore  inconvenience  to  them.  The 
few  stables  already  erected  around  the  meeting 
house  could  not  accommodate  half  of  the  horses 
congregated  there  on  a  Puritan  Sabbath,  and 
every  barn,  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile  about,  was 
put  into  requisition,  on  severe  days.  After  the 
women  had  dismounted  from  their  pillions  at 
the  meeting-house  door,  the  men-folks  patiently 
rode  the  horses  to  some  place  of  shelter,  and 


f4  IN  COLONIAL   T1M&S. 

then  trudged  back  through  the  snow-drifts,  wres 
tling  with  the  icy  wind, 

So  this  new  "  Horse  House  "  was  a  great  bene 
fit  to  the  Waleses,  and  to  the  Pennimans,  who 
lived  three  miles  from  them  over  the  S tough- 
ton  line.  They  were  all  constant  meeting-folks. 
Hard  indeed  was  the  storm  which  could  keep  a 
Wales  or  a  Penniman  away  from  meeting. 

Mrs.  Polly  Wales's  horses  were  accommodated 
in  this  new  stable  also.  In  the  winter-time  there 
were  two  of  them  ;  one  which  she  and  Ann  rode, 
Ann  using  the  pillion,  and  one  for  Nabby  Por 
ter.  Phineas  Adams  always  walked.  Often  the 
sturdy  young  blacksmith  was  at  the  meeting 
house  before  the  women,  and  waiting  to  take 
their  horses. 

One  Sunday,  the  winter  after  the  Horse  House 
was  built,  Mrs.  Polly,  Ann,  Phineas,  and  Nabby 
went  to  meeting  as  usual.  It  was  a  very  cold, 
bleak  day;  the  wind  blew  in  through  the  slight 
wooden  walls  of  the  old  meetmg-house,  and  the 
snow  lay  in  little  heaps  here  and  there.  There 
was  no  stove  in  the  building,  as  every  one  knows. 
Some  of  the  women  had  hot  bricks  and  little 


THE  "HORSE  HOUSE"  DEED.  75 

foot-stoves,  and  that  was  all.  Ann  did  not  care 
for  either.  She  sat  up  straight  in  the  comfort 
less,  high-backed  pew.  Her  cheeks  were  as  red 
as  her  crimson  cloak,  her  black  eyes  shone  like 
stars.  She  let  Mrs.  Polly  and  Nabby  have  the 
hot  stones,  but  her  own  agile  little  feet  were  as 
warm  as  toast.  Little  Hannah  French,  over 
across  the  meeting-house,  looked  chilled  and 
blue,  but  somehow  Ann  never  seemed  to  be 
affected  much  by  the  cold. 

The  Wales  pew  was  close  to  a  window  on  the 
south  side,  —  the  side  where  the  new  stable  was. 
Indeed  Ann  could  see  it  if  she  looked  out.  She 
sat  next  the  window  because  the  other  women 
minded  the  draught  more. 

Right  across  the  aisle  from  Mrs.  Polly's  pew 
was  Thomas  Penniman's.  He  was  there  with 
his  wife,  and  six  stalwart  sons.  The  two  young 
est,  Levi  and  John,  were  crowded  out  of  the  pew 
proper,  and  sat  in  the  one  directly  back. 

John  sat  at  the  end.  He  was  a  tall,  handsome 
young  fellow,  two  or  three  years  older  than  Ann. 
He  was  well  spoken  of  amongst  his  acquaint 
ances  for  two  reasons.  First,  on  account  of  his 


76  IN  COLONIAL   TIMES. 

own  brave,  steady  character;  and  second,  on 
account  of  his  owning  one  of  the  finest  horses 
anywhere  about  A  good  horse  was,  if  anything, 
a  more  important  piece  of  property  then  than 
now.  This  one  was  a  beautiful  bay.  They  called 
him  "  Red  Robin." 

To-day,  Red  Robin  was  carefully  blanketed 
and  fastened  in  the  new  stable.  John  thought 
when  he  tied  him  there  how  thankful  he  was  he 
had  such  a  good  shelter  this  bitter  day.  He  felt 
grateful  to  Lieut.  Seth  Turner,  who  owned  all 
the  land  hereabouts  and  had  given  the  liberty 
to  build  it. 

The  people  all  sat  quietly  listening  to  the  long 
sermon.  Two  hours  long  it  was.  When  the  min 
ister,  perched  up  in  his  beetling  pulpit  with  the 
Sounding-board  over  his  head,  was  about  half 
through  his  discourse,  Ann  Wales  happened  to 
glance  out  of  the  window  at  her  side.  She  rarely 
did  such  a  thing  in  meeting-time;  indeed  she 
had  been  better  instructed.  How  she  happened 
to  to-day,  she  could  not  have  told,  but  she  did. 

It  was  well  she  did.  Just  at  that  moment,  a 
man  in  a  gray  cloak  sprang  into  the  Horse 


THE  "HOUSE  HOUSE"  DEED.  77 

House,  and  began  untying  John  Penniman's 
Red  Robin, 

Ann  gave  one  glance ;  then  she  never  hesi* 
tated.  There  was  no  time  to  send  whispers 
along  the  pew;  to  tell  Phineas  Adams  to  give 
the  alarm. 

Out  of  the  pew  darted  Ann,  like  a  red  robin 
herself,  her  red  cloak  flying  back,  crowding 
nimbly  past  the  others,  across  the  aisle  to  John 
Penniman, 

"  Somebody's  stealing  Red  Robin,  John,"  said 
she,  in  a  clear  whisper.  They  heard  it  for  sev 
eral  pews  around.  Up  sprang  the  pewful  of 
staunch  Pennimans,  father  and  sons,  and  made 
for  the  door  in  a  great  rush  after  John,  who  was 
out  before  the  whisper  had  much  more  than  left 
Ann's  lips. 

The  alarm  spread  ;  other  men  went,  too.  The 
minister  paused,  and  the  women  waited.  Finally 
the  men  returned,  all  but  a  few  who  were  detailed 
to  watch  the  horses  through  the  remainder  of  the 
services,  and  the  meeting  proceeded. 

Phineas  sent  the  whisper  along  the  pew,  that 
John  had  got  out  in  time  to  save  Red  Robin; 


78  IN  COLONIAL    TIMES. 

but  the  robber  had  escaped.  Somehow  he  had 
taken  alarm  before  John  got  there.  Red  Robin 
was  standing  in  the  stable  untied ;  but  the  robber 
had  disappeared. 

After  meeting  the  people  all  came  and  ques 
tioned  Ann.  "  He  was  a  very  tall  man,  in  a  gray 
cloak,"  said  she.  "  He  turned  his  face,  or  I  saw 
it,  just  for  one  second,  when  I  looked.  He  had 
black  eyes  and  a  dark  curling  beard." 

It  seemed  very  extraordinary.  If  it  had  not 
been  for  Red  Robin's  being  untied,  they  would 
almost  have  doubted  if  Ann  had  seen  rightly* 
The  thief  had  disappeared  so  suddenly  and 
utterly,  it  almost  seemed  impossible  that  he 
could  have  been  there  at  all. 

There  was  much  talk  over  it  after  meeting. 
44  Are  you  sure  you  saw  him,  Ann  ? "  Mrs.  Polly 
asked. 

"Yes,  I  am  sure"  Ann  would  reply.  She 
began  to  feel  rather  uncomfortable  over  it.  She 
feared  people  would  think  she  had  been  napping 
and  dreaming  although  Red  Robin  was  untied. 

That  night  the  family  were  all  in  bed  at  nine 
o'clock,  as  usual ;  but  Ann  up  in  her  snug  feather- 


THE  "HORSE  HOUSE"  DEED.  79 

bed  in  her  little  western  chamber  could  'not 
sleep.  She  kept  thinking  about  the  horse  thief, 
and  grew  more  and  more  nervous.  Finally  she 
thought  of  some  fine  linen  cloth  she  and  Mrs. 
Polly  had  left  out  in  the  snowy  field  south  of  the 
house  to  bleach,  and  she  worried  about  that.  A 
web  of  linen  cloth  and  a  horse  were  very  dissimi 
lar  booty ;  but  a  thief  was  a  thief.  Suppose  any 
thing  should  happen  to  the  linen  they  had  worked 
so  hard  over  1 

At  last,  she  could  not  endure  it  any  longer. 
Up  she  got,  put  on  her  clothes  hurriedly,  crept 
softly  down-stairs  and  out-doors.  There  was  a 
full  moon  and  it  was  almost  as  light  as  day. 
The  snow  looked  like  a  vast  sheet  of  silver 
stretching  far  away  over  the  fields. 

Ann  was  hastening  along  the  path  between 
two  high  snowbanks  when  all  of  a  sudden  she 
stopped,  and  gave  a  choked  kind  of  a  scream. 
No  one  with  nerves  could  have  helped  it.  Right 
in  the  path  before  her  stood  the  horse  thief,  gray 
cloak  and  all. 

Ann  turned,  after  her  scream  and  first  wild 
stare,  and  ran.  But  the  man  caught  her  before 


80  IN  COLONIAL    TIMES. 

she  had  taken  three  steps.  "  Don't  scream,"  he 
said,  in  a  terrible,  anxious  whisper.  "  Don't  make 
a  noise,  for  God's  sake !  They're  after  me !  Can't 
you  hide  me  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Ann,  white  and  trembling  all  over, 
but  on  her  mettle,  "  I  won't.  You  are  a  sinful 
man,  and  you  ought  to  be  punished.  I  won't  do 
a  thing  to  help  you ! " 

The  man's  face  bending  over  her  was  ghastly 
in  the  moonlight.  He  went  on  pleading.  "  If 
you  will  hide  me  somewhere  about  your  place, 
they  will  not  find  me,"  said  he,  still  in  that  sharp, 
agonized  whisper.  "They  are  after  me  —  can't 
you  hear  them  ? " 

Ann  could,  listening,  hear  distant  voices  on 
the  night  air. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  hide  in  your  barn,"  said 
the  thief,  "  when  I  met  you.  Oh,  let  me  in  there, 
now !  Don't  betray  me ! " 

Great  tears  were  rolling  do\vn  his  bearded 
cheeks.  Ann  began  to  waver.  "They  might 
look  in  the  barn,"  said  she,  hesitatingly. 

The  man  followed  up  his  advantages.  "  Then 
hide  me  in  the  house,"  said  he.  "  I  have  a 


THE  "HORSE  HOUSE"  DEED.  83 

daughter  at  home,  about  your  age.  She's  wait 
ing  for  me,  and  it's  long  she'll  wait,  and  sad 
news  she'll  get  at  the  end  of  the  waiting,  if  you 
don't  help  me.  She  hasn't  any  mother,  she's  a 
little  tender  thing  —  it'll  kill  her ! "  He  groaned 
as  he  said  it. 

The  voices  came  nearer.  Ann  hesitated  no 
longer.  "  Come,"  said  she,  '*  quick  I " 

Then  she  fled  into  the  house,  the  man  follow 
ing.  Inside,  she  bolted  the  door,  and  made  her 
unwelcome  guest  take  off  his  boots  in  the 
kitchen,  and  follow  her  softly  up-stairs  with 
them  in  his  hand. 

Ann's  terror,  leading  him  up,  almost  over 
whelmed  her.  What  if  anybody  should  wake! 
Nabby  slept  near  the  head  of  the  stairs.  Luck 
ily,  she  was  a  little  deaf,  and  Ann  counted  on 
that. 

She  conducted  the  man  across  a  little  entry 
into  a  back,  unfurnished  chamber,  where,  among 
other  things,  were  stored  some  chests  of  grain. 
The  moon  shone  directly  in  the  window  of  the 
attic  chamber,  so  it  was  light  enough  to  distin 
guish  objects  quite  plainly. 


84  /<V  COLONIAL    TIMES. 

Ann  tiptoed  softly  from  one  grain-chest  to  an 
other.  There  were  three  of  them.  Two  were 
quite  full ;  the  third  was  nearly  empty. 

"  Get  in  here,"  said  Ann.    "  Don't  make  any 


noise." 


He  climbed  in  obediently,  and  Ann  closed  the 
lid.  The  chest  was  a  rickety  old  affair  and  full 
of  cracks,  —  there  was  no  danger  but  he  would 
have  air  enough.  She  heard  the  voices  out  in 
the  yard,  as  she  shut  the  lid.  Back  she  crept 
softly  into  her  own  room,  undressed,  and  got  into 
bed.  She  could  hear  the  men  out  in  the  yard 
quite  plainly.  "We've  lost  him  again,"  she 
heard  one  of  them  say. 

Presently  Phineas  Adams  opened  a  window, 
and  shouted  out,  to  know  what  was  the  matter. 

"  Seen  anything  of  the  horse  thief? "  queried  a 
voice  from  the  yard. 

"  No  I "  said  Phineas.  "  I  have  been  asleep 
these  three  hours.  You  just  waked  me  up." 

"  He  was  hiding  under  the  meeting-house," 
said  the  voice,  "  must  have  slipped  in  there  this 
morning,  when  we  missed  him.  We  went  down 
there  and  watched  to-night,  and  almost  caught 


THE  "  HOXSE  HOUSE"  DEED.  85 

him.  But  he  disappeared  a  little  below  here, 
and  we've  lost  him  again.  It's  my  opinion  he's 
an  evil  spirit  in  disguise.  He  ran  like  the  wind, 
in  amongst  the  trees,  where  we  couldn't  follow 
with  the  horses.  Are  you  sure  he  did  not  skulk 
in  here  somewhere  ?  Sim  White  thinks  he  did." 

"  I  knew  I  saw  him  turn  the  corner  of  the 
lane,"  chimed  in  another  voice,  "and  we've 
scoured  the  woods." 

"  I  think  we'd  better  search  the  barn,  anyhow," 
some  one  else  said,  and  a  good  many  murmured 
assent. 

"  Wait  a  min,ute,  I'll  be  down,"  said  Phineas, 
shutting  his  window. 

How  long  poor  Ann  lay  there  shaking,  she 
never  knew.  It  seemed  hours.  She  heard 
Phineas  go  down-stairs,  and  unlock  the  door. 
She  heard  them  tramp  into  the  barn.  "  Oh,  if  I 
had  hidden  him  there ! "  she  thought. 

After  a  while  she  heard  them  out  in  the  yard 
again.  "  He  could  not  have  gotten  into  the 
house,  in  any  way,"  she  heard  one  man  remark, 
speculatively.  How  she  waited  for  the  response. 
It  came  in  Phineas  Adams's  slow,  sensible  tones, 


86  IN  COLONIAL    TIMES* 

"  How  could  he  ?  Didn't  you  hear  me  unbolt 
the  door  when  I  came  out  ?  The  doors  are  all 
fastened,  I  saw  to  it  myself/' 

"Well,  of  course  he  didn't,"  agreed  the 
voice. 

At  last  Phineas  came  in,  and  Ann  heard  them 
go.  She  was  so  thankful.  However,  the  future 
perplexities,  which  lay  before  her,  were  enough  to 
keep  her  awake  for  the  rest  of  the  night.  In  the 
morning  a  new  anxiety  beset  her.  The  poor  thief 
must  have  some  breakfast.  She  could  easily  have 
smuggled  some  dry  bread  up  to  him,  but  she  did 
want  him  to  have  some  of  the  hot  Indian  mush, 
which  the  family  had.  Ann,  impulsive  in  this  as 
everything,  now  that  shfe  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  protect  a  thief,  wanted  to  do  it  handsomely, 
She  did  want  him  to  have  some  of  that  hot 
mush;  but  how  could  she  manage  it? 

The  family  at  the  breakfast-table  discussed  the 
matter  of  the  horse  thief  pretty  thoroughly.  It 
was  a  hard  ordeal  for  poor  Ann,  who  could  not 
take  easily  to  deception.  She  had  unexpected 
trouble,  too,  with  Nabby.  Nabby  had  waked  up 
the  preceding  night. 


THE  "HORSE  HOUSE"  DEED.  87 

MI  didn't  see  anything,"  proclaimed  Nabby; 
"but  I  heerd  a  noise.  I  think  there's  mice  out 
in  the  grain-chist  in  the  back  chamber." 

"  I  must  go  up  there  and  look,"  said  Mrs. 
Polly.  "  They  did  considerable  mischief  last 
year." 

Ann  turned  pale;  what  if  she  should  take  it 
into  her  head  to  look  that  day ! 

She  watched  her  chance  very  narrowly  for  the 
hot  mush  ;  and  after  breakfast  she  caught  a  min 
ute  when  Phineas  had  gone  to  work  and  Mrs. 
Polly  was  in  the  pantry,  and  Nabby  down  cellar. 
She  had  barely  time  to  fill  a  bowl  with  mush,  and 
scud. 

How  lightly  she  stepped  over  that  back  cham 
ber  floor,  and  how  gingerly  she  opened  the  grain- 
chest  lid.  The  thief  looked  piteously  out  at  her 
from  his  bed  of  Indian  corn,  He  was  a  hand 
some  man,  somewhere  between  forty  and  fifty. 
Indeed,  he  came  of  a  very  good  family  in  a  town 
not  so  very  far  away.  Horse  thieves  numbered 
some  very  respectable  personages  in  their  clan  in 
those  days  sometimes. 

They  carried   on   a  whispered    conversation 


88  IN  COLONIAL    TIMES. 

while  he  ate.  It  was  arranged  that  Ann  was  to 
assist  him  off  that  night. 

V/hat  a  day  poor  Ann  had,  listening  and  watch 
ing  in  constant  terror  every  moment,  for  fear 
something  would  betray  her.  Besides,  her  con 
science  troubled  her  sadly ;  she  was  far  from 
being  sure  that  she  was  doing  right  in  hiding  a 
thief  from  justice.  But  the  poor  man's  tears, 
and  the  mention  of  his  daughter,  had  turned  the 
scale  with  her ;  she  could  not  give  him  up. 

Her  greatest  fear  was  lest  Mrs.  Polly  should 
take  a  notion  to  search  for  mice  in  the  grain- 
chests.  She  so  hoped  Nabby  would  not  broach 
the  subject  again.  But  there  was  a  peculiarity 
about  Nabby,  —  she  had  an  exceedingly  bitter 
hatred  of  rats  and  mice.  Still  there  was  no 
danger  of  her  investigating  the  grain-chests  on 
her  own  account,  for  she  was  very  much  afraid. 
She  would  not  have  lifted  one  of  those  lids,  with 
the  chance  of  a  rat  or  mouse  being  under  it,  for 
the  world.  If  ever  a  mouse  was  seen  in  the 
kitchen  Nabby  took  immediate  refuge  on  the  set 
tle  or  the  table  and  left  some  one  else  to  do  the 
fighting. 


THE  "HORSE  HOUSE"  DEED,  89 

So  Nabby,  being  so*  constituted,  could  not  be 
easy  on  the  subject  this  time.  All  day  long  she 
heard  rats  and  mice  in  the  grain-chests;  she 
stopped  and  listened  with  her  broom,  and 
she  stopped  and  listened  with  her  mop. 

Ann  went  to  look,  indeed  that  was  the  way 
she  smuggled  the  thief  s  dinner  to  him,  but  her 
report  of  nothing  the  matter  with  the  grain  did 
not  satisfy  Nabby.  She  had  more  confidence  in 
Mrs.  Polly.  But  Mrs.  Polly  did  not  offer  to  in 
vestigate  herself  until  after  supper.  They  had 
been  very  busy  that  day,  washing,  and  now  there 
was  churning  to  do.  Ann  sat  at  the  churn,  Mrs. 
Polly  was  cutting  up  apples  for  pies,  and  Nabby 
was  washing  dishes,  when  the  rats  and  mice 
smote  her  deaf  ears  again, 

"  I  knew  I  heerd  'em  then,"  she  said ;  "  I  don't 
believe  but  what  them  grain-chists  is  full  of 


'em." 


"  I  am  going  to  look,"  quoth  Mrs.  Polly  then, 
in  a  tone  of  decision,  and  straightway  she  rose 
and  got  a  candle. 

Ann's  heart  beat  terribly.  "  Oh,  I  wouldn't  go 
up  there  to-night,"  said  she. 


90  IN  COLONIAL    TIM&S. 

"  Yes,  I  am  going.  I'm  going  to  satisfy  Nabby 
about  the  rats  in  the  grain-chest,  if  I  can." 

She  was  out  the  door,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
Nabby  behind  her,  dish-cloth  and  plate  in  hand, 
peering  fearfully  over  her  shoulder.  Ann  was  in 
despair.  Only  one  chance  of  averting  the  dis 
covery  suggested  itself  to  her.  It  was  a  dread 
ful  one,  but  she  took  it.  She  tipped  over  the 
churn.  "  Oh,  oh!"  she  screamed.  Back  rushed 
Mrs.  Polly  and  Nabby,  and  that  ended  the  rat- 
hunt  for  that  night.  The  waste  of  all  that  beau 
tiful  cream  was  all  Mrs.  Polly  could  think  of  — 
prudent  housewife  that  she  was. 

So  in  the  night,  when  the  moon  was  up,  and 
the  others  were  sound  asleep,  Ann  assisted  her 
thief  safely  out  of  the  grain-chest  and  out  of  the 
house.  "  But  first,"  said  Ann  Wales,  pausing 
bravely,  with  her  hand  on  the  grain-chest  lid, 
speaking  in  a  solemn  whisper,  "before  I  let  you 
out,  you  must  make  me  a  promise." 

"  What  ?  "  came  back  feebly. 

"That  you  will  never,  never,  steal  a  horse 
again.  If  you  don't  promise,  I  will  give  you  up, 


now." 


THE  "HORSE  HOUSE"  DEED.  $1 

44 1  promise  I  won't,"  said  the  man,  readily. 

Let  us  hope  he  never  did.  That,  speeding 
out  into  the  clear  winter  night,  he  did  bear  with 
him  a  better  determination  in  his  heart.  At  all 
events,  there  were  no  more  attempts  made  to 
rob  the  new  Horse  House  at  the  Braintree 
meeting-house.  Many  a  Sunday  after  that, 
Red  Robin  stood  there  peaceful  and  unmolested. 
Occasionally,  as  the  years  went  by,  he  was  tied, 
of  a  Sunday  night,  in  Mrs.  Polly  Wales's 
barn. 

For,  by  and  by,  his  master,  good,  brave  young 
John  Penniman,  married  Ann  Wales.  The 
handsomest  couple  that  ever  went  into  the  meet 
ing-house,  people  said.  Ann's  linen  chest  was 
well  stocked ;  and  she  had  an  immense  silk  bon 
net,  with  a  worked  white  veil,  a  velvet  cloak,  and 
a  flowered  damask  petticoat  for  her  wedding 
attire.  Even  Hannah  French  had  nothing  finer 
when  she  was  married  to  Phineas  Adams  a  year 
later. 

All  the  drawback  to  the  happiness  was  that 
John  had  taken  some  land  up  in  Vermont,  and 
there  the  young  couple  went,  shortly  after  the 


92  IN  COLONIAL   TIMES. 

wedding.  It  was  a  great  cross  to  Mrs.  Polly; 
but  she  bore  it  bravely.  Not  a  tear  sparkled  in 
her  black  eyes,  watching  the  pair  start  off  down 
the  bridle-path,  riding  Red  Robin,  Ann  on  a  pil 
lion  behind  her  husband.  But  sitting  down 
beside  her  lonely  hearth  when  she  entered  the 
house,  she  cried  bitterly.  "I  <Jid  hope  I  could 
keep  Ann  with  me  as  long  as  I  lived,"  she 
sobbed. 

"  Don't  you  take  on,"  said  Nabby,  consolingly. 
"You  take  my  word  for't,  they'll  be  back  afore 
long." 

Nabby  proved  a  true  prophet.  Red  Robin  did 
come  trotting  back  from  the  Vermont  wilds,  bear 
ing  his  master  and  mistress  before  long.  Various 
considerations  induced  them  to  return ;  and  Mrs. 
Polly  was  overjoyed.  They  came  to  live  with 
her. 

Riding  through  the  wilderness  to  Vermont  on 
their  wedding  journey,  Ann  had  confessed  to  her 
husband  how  she  had  secreted  the  thief  who  had 
tried  to  steal  his  Red  Robin.  She  had  been 
afraid  to  tell ;  but  he  had  turned  on  the  saddle, 
and  smiled  down  in  her  face.  "  I  am  content 


THE  "HORSE  HOUSE"  DEED.  93 

that  the  man  is  safe/1  said  John  Penniman. 
44  Prithee,  why  should  I  wish  him  evil,  whilst  I 
am  riding  along  with  thee,  on  Red  Robin, 
Ann?" 


»r"  •- 

,ro-V  v^""  '  .-•• 


^^*^»-*»-*-iv«~4i^.        ^\TV*  - 


THE  SQUIRE'S  SIXPENCE 


THE  SQUIRE'S   SIXPENCE. 

PATIENCE  MATHER  was  saying  the  seven-multi 
plication  table,  when  she  heard  a  heavy  shuffling 
step  in  the  entry. 

"  That  is  Squire  Bean,"  whispered  her  friend, 
Martha  Joy,  who  stood  at  her  elbow. 

Patience  stopped  short  in  horror.  Her  es 
pecial  bugbear  in  mathematics  was  eight-times- 
seven;  she  was  coming  toward  it  fast  —  could 
she  remember  it  with  old  Squire  Bean  looking 
at  her? 

"  Go  on,"  said  the  teacher,  severely.  She  was 
quite  young,  and  also  stood  in  some  awe  of 
Squire  Bean,  but  she  did  not  wish  her  pupils 
to  discover  it,  so  she  pretended  to  ignore  that 
slep  in  the  entry.  Squire  Bean  walked  with 
a  heavy  gilt-headed  cane  which  always  went 
clump,  clump,  at  every  step ;  besides  he  shuffled 
—  one  could  always  tell  who  was  coming. 

7 


98  IN  COLONIAL   TIMES. 

"Seven  times  seven/*  begun  Patience,  trem 
bling —  then  the  door  opened  — there  stood 
Squire  Bean. 

The  teacher  rose  promptly.  She  tried  to  be 
very  easy  and  natural,  but  her  pretty  round 
cheeks  turned  red  and  white  by  turns, 

"Good  morning,  Squire  Bean,"  said  she. 
Then  she  placed  a  chair  on  the  platform  for 
him. 

11  Good  morning,"  said  he,  and  seated  himself 
in  a  lumbering  way  —  he  was  rather  stiff  with 
rheumatism.  He  was  a  large  old  man  in  a 
green  camlet  cloak  with  brass  buttons. 

"  You  may  go  on  with  the  exercises,"  said  he 
to  the  teacher,  after  he  had  adjusted  himself 
and  wiped  his  face  solemnly  with  a  great  red 
handkerchief. 

"  Go  on,  Patience,"  said  the  teacher. 

So  Patience  piped  up  in  her  little  weak  so 
prano  :  "  Seven  times  seven  are  forty-nine. 
Eight  times  seven  are  — "  She  stopped  short. 
Then  she  begun  over  again  —  "Eight  times 


seven  —  " 


The  class  with  toes  on  the  crack  all  swayed 


TJ/JS  SQU/RE*S  SIXPENCE.  $9 

forward  to  look  at  he*-,  the  pupils  at  the  foot 
stepped  off  till  they  swung  it  into  a  half-circle. 
Hands  came  up  and  gyrated  wildly. 

"  Back  on  the  line  I "  said  the  teacher,  sternly. 
Then  they  stepped  back,  but  the  hands  indica 
tive  of  superior  knowledge  still  waved,  the  coarse 
jacket-sleeves  and  the  gingham  apron-sleeves 
slipping  back  from  the  thin  childish  wrists. 

"  Eight  times  seven  are  eighty-nine,"  declared 
Patience,  desperately,  The  hands  shook  fran 
tically,  some  of  the  owners  stepped  off  the  line 
again  in  their  eagerness. 

Patience's  cheeks  were  red  as  poppies,  her 
eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"  You  may  try  once  more,  Patience,"  said  the 
teacher,  who  was  distressed  herself.  She  feared 
lest  Squire  Bean  might  think  that  it  was  her 
fault,  and  that  she  was  not  a  competent  teacher, 
because  Patience  Mather  did  not  know  eight- 
times-seven. 

So  Patience  started  again  — "  Eight  times 
seven  — "  She  paused  for  a  mighty  mental 
effort  —  she  must  get  it  right  this  time.  "  Six — " 
she  began  feebly. 


100  IN  COLONIAL   TIMES. 

"What!"  said  Squire  Bean,  suddenly,  in  a 
deep  voice  which  sounded  like  a  growl. 

Then  all  at  once  poor  little  Patience  heard  a 
whisper  sweet  as  an  angel's  in  her  ear:  "  Fifty- 


six." 


"  Eight  times  seven  are  fifty-six,"  said  she, 
convulsively. 

"  Right,"  said  the  teacher,  with  a  relieved  look. 
The  hands  went  down.  Patience  stood  with  her 
neat  little  shoes  toeing  out  on  the  crack,  It  was 
over.  She  had  answered,  she  had  not  failed  be 
fore  Squire  Bean.  For  a  few  minutes  she  could 
think  of  nothing  but  that. 

The  rest  of  the  class  had  their  weak  points, 
moreover  their  strong  points,  overlooked  in  the 
presence  of  the  company.  The  first  thing  Pa 
tience  knew,  ever  so  many  had  missed  in  the 
nine-table,  and  she  had  gone  up  to  the  head. 

Standing  there,  all  at  once  a  terrible  misgiv 
ing  seized  her.  "  I  wouldn't  have  gone  to  the 
head  if  I  hadn't  been  told,"  she  thought  to  her 
self.  Martha  was  next  below  her;  she  knew 
that  question  in  the  nines,  her  hand  had  been 
up,  so  had  John  Allen's  and  Phoebe  Adams's. 


THE  SQUIRED  SIXPENCE.  IOI 

This  was  the  last  class  before  recess.  Patience 
went  soberly  out  in  the  yard  with  the  other  girls, 
There  was  a  little  restraint  over  all  the  scholars. 
They  looked  with  awe  at  the  Squire's  horse  and 
chaise.  The  horse  was  tied  after  a  novel  fashion, 
an  invention  of  the  Squire's  own.  He  had  driven 
a  gimlet  into  the  schoolhouse  wall,  and  tied  his 
horse  to  it  with  a  stout  rope.  Whenever  the 
Squire  drove  he  carried  with  him  his  gimlet,  in 
case  there  should  be  no  hitching-post  Occa 
sionally  house-owners  rebelled,  but  it  made  no 
difference;  the  next  time  the  Squire  had  occa 
sion  to  stop  at  their  premises  there  was  another 
gimlet-hole  in  the  wall.  Few  people  could  make 
their  way  good  against  Squire  Bean's. 

There  were  a  great  many  holes  in  the  school- 
house  walls,  for  the  Squire  made  frequent  visits ; 
he  was  one  of  the  committee,  and  considered 
himself  very  necessary  for  the  well-being  of  the 
school.  Indeed  if  he  had  frankly  spoken  his 
mind,  he  would  probably  have  admitted  that  in 
his  estimation  the  school  could  not  be  properly 
kept  one  day  without  his  assistance. 

Patience   stood   with    her    back   against    the 


102  IN  COLONIAL    TIMES, 

school  fence,  and  watched  the  others  soberly. 
The  girls  wanted  her  to  play  "Little  Sally 
Waters  sitting  in  the  sun,"  but  she  said  no,  she 
didn't  want  to  play. 

Martha  took  hold  of  her  arm  and  tried  to  pull 
her  into  the  ring,  but  she  held  back. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  said  Martha. 

"Nothing,"  Patience  said,  but  her  face  was 
full  of  trouble,  There  was  a  little  wrinkle  be 
tween  her  reflective  brown  eyes,  and  she  drew 
in  her  under  lip  after  a  way  she  had  when  dis 
turbed,, 

When  the  bell  rang,  the  scholars  filed  in  with 
the  greatest  order  and  decorum.  Even  the  most 
frisky  boys  did  no  more  than  roll  their  eyes 
respectfully  in  the  Squire's  direction  as  they 
passed  him,  and  they  tiptoed  on  their  bare  feet 
in  the  most  cautious  manner. 

The  Squire  sat  through  the  remaining  exer 
cises,  until  it  was  time  to  close  the  school. 

"You  may  put  up  your  books,"  said  the 
teacher.  There  was  a  rustle  and  clatter,  then  a 
solemn  hush.  They  all  sat  with  their  arms 
folded,  looking  expectantly  at  Squire  Bean.  The 


THE  SQUIKE*S  SIXPENCE.  1 03 

teacher  turned  to  him.  *  Her  cheeks  were  very 
red,  and  she  was  very  dignified,  but  her  voice 
shook  a  little. 

"Won't  you  make  some  remarks  to  the 
pupils?"  said  she. 

Then  the  Squire  rose  and  cleared  his  throat. 
The  scholars  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  what 
he  said,  although  they  sat  still,  with  their  eyes 
riveted  on  his  face.  But  when,  toward  the  close 
of  his  remarks,  he  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket, 
and  a  faint  jingling  was  heard,  a  thrill  ran  over 
the  school. 

The  Squire  pulled  out  two  silver  sixpences, 
and  held  them  up  impressively  before  the  chil 
dren.  Through  a  hole  in  each  of  them  dangled 
a  palm-leaf  strand ;  and  the  Squire's  own  initial 
was  stamped  on  both. 

"  Thomas  Arnold  may  step  this  way,"  said  the 
Squire. 

Thomas  Arnold  had  acquitted  himself  well  in 
geography,  and  to  him  the  Squire  duly  presented 
one  of  the  sixpences. 

Thomas  bobbed,  and  pattered  back  to  his  seat 
with  all  his  mates  staring  and  grinning  at  him, 


104  IN  COLONIAL   TIMES. 

Then  Patience  Mather's  heart  jumped,— 
Squire  Bean  was  bidding  her  step  that  way,  on 
account  of  her  going  to  the  head  of  the  arith 
metic  class.  She  sat  still.  There  was  a  roaring 
in  her  ears.  Squire  Bean  spoke  again.  Then 
the  teacher  interposed.  "  Patience,"  said  she, 
"  did  you  not  hear  what  Squire  Bean  said  ?  Step 
this  way." 

Then  Patience  rose  and  dragged  slowly  down 
the  aisle.  She  hung  her  head,  she  dimly  heard 
Squire  Bean  speaking ;  then  the  sixpence  touched 
her  hand.  Suddenly  Patience  looked  up.  There 
was  a  vein  of  heroism  in  the  little  girl.  Not  far 
back,  some  of  her  kin  had  been  brave  fighters 
in  the  Revolution.  Now  their  little  descendant 
went  marching  up  to  her  own  enemy  in  her  own 
way.  She  spoke  right  up  before  Squire  Bean. 

"  I'd  rather  you'd  give  it  to  some  one  else," 
said  she,  with  a  curtsy.  "  It  doesn't  belong  to 
me.  I  wouldn't  have  gone  to  the  head  if  I  hadn't 
cheated." 

Patience's  cheeks  were  white,  but  her  eyes 
flashed.  Squire  Bean  gasped,  and  turned  it  into 
a  cough.  Then  he  begun  asking  her  questions. 


THE  SQVIWS  SIXP&NCB.  10$ 

Patience  answered  unflinchingly.  She  kept  hold 
ing  the  sixpence  toward  him. 

Finally  he  reached  out  and  gave  it  a  little 
push  back. 

"  Keep  it,"  said  he,  "keep  it,  keep  it.  I  don't 
give  it  to  you  for  going  to  the  head,  but  because 
you  are  an  honest  and  truthful  child." 

Patience  blushed  pink  to  her  little  neck.  She 
curtsied  deeply  and  returned  to  her  seat,  the 
silver  sixpence  dangling  from  her  agitated  little 
hand.  She  put  her  head  down  on  her  desk,  and 
cried,  now  it  was  all  over,  and  did  not  look  up 
till  school  was  dismissed,  and  Martha  Joy  came 
and  put  her  arm  around  her  and  comforted  her. 

The  two  little  girls  were  very  close  friends, 
and  were  together  all  the  time  which  they  could 
snatch  out  of  school-hours.  Not  long  after  the 
presentation  of  the  sixpence,  one  night  after 
school,  Patience's  mother  wanted  her  to  go  on 
an  errand  to  Nancy  Gookin's  hut.  Nancy  Goo- 
kin  was  an  Indian  woman,  who  did  a  good  many 
odd  jobs  for '•  the  neighbors.  Mrs.  Mather  was 
expecting  company,  and  she  wanted  her  to  come 
the  next  day  and  assist  her  about  some  cleaning. 


106  IN  COLONIAL   TIM&S. 

Patience  was  usually  willing  enough,  but  to 
night  she  demurred.  In  fact  she  was  a  little 
afraid  of  the  Indian  woman,  who  lived  all  alone 
in  a  little  hut  on  the  edge  of  some  woods.  Her 
mother  knew  it,  but  it  was  a  foolish  fear  and  she 
did  not  encourage  her  in  it 

"  There  is  no  sense  in  your  being  afraid  of 
Nancy,"  she  said,  with  some  severity.  u  She's 
a  good  woman,  if  she  is  an  Injun,  and  she  is 
always  to  be  seen  in  the  meeting-house  of  a 
Sabbath  day." 

As  her  mother  spoke,  Patience  could  see 
Nancy's  dark,  harsh  old  face  peering  over  the 
pew,  where  she  and  some  of  her  nation  sat  to 
gether,  Sabbath  days,  and  the  image  made  her 
shudder  in  spite  of  its  environments.  However, 
she  finally  put  on  her  little  sunbonnet  and  set 
forth.  It  was  a  lovely  summer  twilight,  she  had 
only  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  go,  but  her 
courage  failed  her  more  and  more  at  every  step. 
Martha  Joy  lived  on  the  way.  When  she  reached 
her  house,  she  stopped  and  begged  her  to  go 
with  her.  Martha  was  obliging ;  under  ordinary 
circumstances  she  would  have  gone  with  alacrity, 


THE  SQUIRED  SIXPENCE, 

but  to-night  she  had  a  hard  toothache.  She 
came  to  the  door  with  her  face  all  tied  up  in  a 
hop-poultice.  '"'I'm  'fraid  I  can't  go,"  she  said, 
dolefully. 

But  Patience  begged  and  begged.  "  111  spend 
my  sixpence  that  Uncle  Joseph  gave  me,  and 
111  buy  you  a  whole  card  of  peppermints,"  said 
she,  finally,  by  way  of  inducement. 

That  won  the  day.  Martha  got  few  sweets, 
and  if  there  was  anything  she  craved,  it  was  the 
peppermints,  which  came,  in  those  days,  in  big 
beautiful  cards,  to  be  broken  off  at  will.  And 
to  have  a  whole  card ! 

So  poor  Martha  tied  her  little  flapping  sun- 
bonnet  over  her  swollen  cheeks,  and  went  with 
Patience  to  see  Nancy  Gookin,  who  received 
the  message  thankfully,  and  did  not  do  them  the 
least  harm  in  the  world. 

Martha  had  really  a  very  hard  toothache.  She 
did  not  sleep  much  that  night,  for  all  the  hop- 
poultice,  and  she  went  to  school  the  next  day 
feeling  tired  and  cross.  She  was  a  nervous  little 
girl,  and  never  bore  illness  very  well.  But  to-day 
she  had  one  pleasant  anticipation.  She  thought 


108  IN  COLONIAL   TIMES. 

often  of  that  card  of  peppermints.  It  had  cheered 
her  somewhat  in  her  uneasy  night.  She  thought 
that  Patience  would  surely  bring  them  to  school. 
She  came  early  herself  and  watched  for  her.  She 
entered  quite  late,  just  before  the  bell  rang. 
Martha  ran  up  to  her.  "  I  haven't  got  the  pep 
permints,"  said  Patience,  soberly.  She  had  been 
crying. 

Martha  straightened  up:  "Why  not?" 

The  tears  welled  out  of  Patience's  eyes.  "  I 
can't  find  that  sixpence  anywhere." 

The  tears  came  into  Martha's  eyes,  too.  She 
looked  as  dignified  as  her  poulticed  face  would 
allow.  "  I  never  knew  you  told  fibs,  Patience 
Mather,"  said  she.  "  I  don't  believe  my  mother 
will  want  me  to  go  with  you  any  more." 

Just  then  the  bell  rung.  Martha  went  crying 
to  her  seat,  and  the  others  thought  it  was  on 
account  of  her  toothache.  Patience  kept  back 
her  tears.  She  was  forming  a  desperate  resolu 
tion.  When  recess  came,  she  got  permission  to 
go  to  the  store  which  was  quite  near,  and  she 
bought  a  card  of  peppermints  with  the  Squire's 
sixpence,  She  had  pulled  out  the  palm-leaf 


THE  SqUIRE*S  SIXPENCE.  IO9 

strand  on  her  way,  thrusting  it  into  her  pocket 
guiltily.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  committing 
sacrilege.  These  sixpences,  which  Squire  Bean 
bestowed  upon  worthy  scholars  from  time  to 
time,  were  ostensibly  for  the  purpose  of  book 
marks.  That  was  the  reason  for  the  palm-leaf 
strand.  The  Squire  took  the  sixpences  to  the 
blacksmith,  who  stamped  them  with  B's,  and 
then,  with  his  own  hands,  he  adjusted  the  palm- 
leaf. 

The  man  who  kept  the  store  looked  at  the 
sixpence  curiously,  when  Patience  proffered  it. 

"  One  of  the  Squire's  sixpences  I "  said  he. 

"Yes;  it's  mine."  That  was  the  argument 
which  Patience  had  set  forth  to  her  own  con 
science.  It  was  certainly  her  own  sixpence; 
the  Squire  had  given  it  to  her, — had  she  not 
a  right  to  do  as  she  chose  with  it? 

The  man  laughed;  his  name  was  Ezra  Tom- 
kins,  and  he  enjoyed  a  joke.  He  was  privately 
resolving  to  give  that  sixpence  in  change  to 
the  old  Squire  and  see  what  he  would  say.  If 
Patience  had  guessed  his  thoughts  — 

But  she  took  the  card  of  peppermints,  and 


1 10  W  COLONIAL 

carried  them  to  the  appeased  and  repentant 
and  curious  Martha,  and  waited  further  devel 
opments  in  trepidation.  She  had  a  presentiment 
deep  within  her  childish  soul  that  some  day  she 
would  have  a  reckoning  with  Squire  Bean  con 
cerning  his  sixpence. 

If  by  chance  she  had  to  pass  his  house,  she 
would  hurry  by  at  her  utmost  speed  lest  she  be 
intercepted.  She  got  out  of  his  way  as  fast  as 
she  could  if  she  spied  his  old  horse  and  chaise 
in  the  distance.  Still  she  knew  the  day  would 
come;  and  it  did. 

It  was  one  Saturday  afternoon ;  school  did  not 
keep,  and  she  was  all  alone  in  the  house  with 
Martha.  Her  mother  had  gone  visiting.  The 
two  little  girls  were  playing  **  Holly  Gull,  Passed 
how  many,"  with  beans  in  the  kitchen,  when  the 
door  opened,  and  in  walked  Susan  Elder.  She 
was  a  woman  who  lived  at  Squire  Bean's  and 
helped  his  wife  with  the  housework. 

The  minute  Patience  saw  her,  she  knew  what 
her  errand  was.  She  gave  a  great  start.  Then 
she  looked  at  Susan  Elder  with  her  big,  frightened 
eyes. 


THE  SQUIRES  3JXPMNC&*  1 1 1 

Susan  Elder  was  a  stout  old  woman.  She  sat 
down  on  the  settle,  and  wheezed  before  she 
spoke.  "Squire  Bean  wants  you  to  come  up 
to  his  house  right  away,"  said  she,  at  last. 

Patience  trembled  all  over.  "  My  mother  is 
gone  away.  I  don't  know  as  she  would  want 
me  to  go,"  she  ventured,  despairingly. 

"  He  wants  you  to  come  right  away,"  said 
Susan. 

"  I  don't  believe  mother'd  want  me  to  leave 
the  house  alone." 

"  I'll  stay  an'  rest  till  you  git  back ;  I'd  jest  as 
soon.  I'm  all  tuckered  out  comin' up  the  hill." 

Patience  was  very  pale.  She  cast  an  agonized 
glance  at  Martha.  "  /  spent  the  Squire* s  sixpence 
for  those  peppermints?  she  whispered.  She  had 
not  told  her  before. 

Martha  looked  at  her  in  horror,  —  then  she 
begun  to  cry.  "  Oh,  I  made  you  do  it,"  she 
sobbed. 

"  Won't  you  go  with  me  ? "  groaned  Patience. 

"One  little  gal  is  enough,"  spoke  up  Susan 
Elder.  "  He  won't  like  it  if  two  goes." 

That  settled  it.     Poor  little  Patience  Mather 


112  IN  COLONIAL    TIMES, 

crept  meekly  out  of  the  house  and  down  the 
hill  to  Squire  Bean's,  without  even  Martha's 
foreboding  sympathy  for  consolation. 

She  looked  ahead  wistfully  all  the  way.  If 
she  could  only  see  her  mother  coming,  —  but 
she  did  not,  and  there  was  Squire  Bean's  house, 
square  and  white  and  massive,  with  great  sprawl 
ing  clumps  of  white  peonies  in  the  front  yard. 

She  went  around  to  the  brck  door,  and  raised 
a  feeble  clatter  with  the  knocker.  Mrs.  Squire 
Bean,  who  was  tall  and  thin  and  mild-looking, 
answered  her  knock.  "The  —  Squire  —  sent  — 
for — me  "  —  choked  Patience. 

"Oh,"  said  the  old  lady,  "you  air  the  little 
Mather  gal,  I  guess." 

Patience  shook  so  she  could  hardly  reply. 

"You'd  better  go  right  into  his  room,"  said 
Mrs.  Squire  Bean,  and  Patience  followed  her. 
She  gave  her  a  little  pat  when  she  opened  a 
door  on  the  right.  "  Don't  you  be  afeard," 
said  shej^he  won't  say  nothin'  to  you.  I'll 
give  you  a  piece  of  sweet-cake  when  you  come 
out." 

Thus  admonished,  Patience  entered.    "  Here's 


THE  SQUIRE'S  SIXPENCE. 

"  You  did  very  wrong-  to  spend  it,  very  wrong. 
Those  sixpences  are  not  given  to  you  to  spend. 
But  I  will  overlook  it  this  once." 

The  Squire  extended  the  sixpence.  Patience 
took  it,  with  another  dip  of  her  little  skirt.  Then 
he  turned  around  to  his  desk. 

Patience  waited  a  few  minutes.  She  did  not 
know  whether  she  was  dismissed  or  not.  Finally 
the  Squire  begun  to  add  aloud :  "  Five  and  five 
are  ten,"  he  said,  "  ought,  and  carry  the  one." 

He  was  adding  a  bill.  Then  Patience  stole 
out  softly.  Mrs.  Squire  Bean  was  waiting  in  the 
kitchen.  She  gave  her  a  great  piece  of  plum- 
cake  and  kissed  her. 

"  He  didn't  hurt  you  any,  did  he  ? "  said  she. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  said  Patience,  looking  with  a 
bewildered  smile  at  the  sixpence. 

That  night  she  tied  in  the  palm-leaf  strand 
again,  and  she  put  the  sixpence  in  her  geogra 
phy-book,  and  she  kept  it  so  safely  all  her  life 
that  her  great-grandchildren  have  seen  it. 


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Book  Slip-70m-9,'65(F7151s4)458 


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PS1712 

Freeman,  M.E.W.          15 
In  colonial  times. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


